


Lover in Red, Fighter in Blue

by christinebeckel



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 163,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8972140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinebeckel/pseuds/christinebeckel
Summary: “It's complicated.” Clarke sighed.“It always IS, isn’t it?" Abby laughed. "Complicated and messy. I reckon it’s supposed to be. That’s how you know it’s real; it’s worth fighting for.”“How you know WHAT’S real?”“Love, Clarke.” Abby chuckled. “Love.”I’m really scared.” I admit.“You should be.” Anya laughs. “Love's supposed to be scary, Lexa. Crap-your-pants scary. But fear's what makes things fun, right?”This story is, at its core, a love story. But I can’t promise it never gets complicated or messy. Because it's set in a world as complicated and messy as our own; one of laughter and loss, hurting and healing, mishaps and missed opportunities. It’s full of characters who, like the best of us, have moments of courage and fear, defiance and complacency; of finding strength and of falling apart. It's a world of besties and bullies, friendships formed and families forged, pudding and burnt cookies and Dots, squeaky brakes and rusty swings, wise wizards and feminists, cheesy jokes and scary truths, trig problems, boy problems and everything in between.ORThis is the story where Clarke and Lexa fall madly in love in 6th grade and it takes the nerds 4 long years to figure it all out.





	1. The Violent Collision of Green Eyes and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't decide between telling this story through Lexa's (1st person) perspective or Clarke's (3rd), so I just chose to alternate between the two, because... hey... I can do both.  
> Also, nothing excites me like receiving feedback. So, kind or critical, brisk or rambling, if you have ANYTHING to say, please leave a comment :)

PART ONE: Squaring Off Eye to Eye  
OR  
The Sorta Rocky Start

 

Chapter 1  
The Violent Collision of Green Eyes and Blue  
OR  
Alexandria and the Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad Day

LEXA

For the first time since I rolled my sorry butt out of bed this morning, I feel the corners of my lips tug into the tiniest of smiles. The door to the classroom is slightly ajar and I cannot help but nurse the little ray of hope shining stubbornly in the dark pit of my empty belly. I know it’s foolish. I know that hope is just like those little cheerful pink and yellow and blue packets of fake sugar sitting on the table wedged between the napkins and the dessert menu at Denny’s: Falsely sweet... Designed to deceive... Poisonous.

But I rip a packet open anyway and pour the powder into my palm and I only mean to dip the tip of my tongue into it. I only mean to take a taste. But soon I am licking at it greedily. And my brain is already falling for its lie.

Maybe... Just maybe... Something will go right for me this morning. 

So I pry my tattered, old backpack from my shoulders and clutch it in my fist at my side instead. I cross the fingers of my free hand. I suck in a breath and I pull my tummy in as far as I can. I turn sideways and I close my eyes as if believing the darkness behind my lids can hide me. And I slowly wedge my way through the narrow opening. My desk is in the back row and if I can just sneak my way in silently, maybe... Just maybe... No one will notice me. 

The edge of the door pulls at the thin fabric of my t-shirt as I try to force my ribs to shrink with my tummy. I’m almost through. I’m almost through. I’m almost...

“Miss Woods,” The stern, deep voice makes me jump and I ram my stomach against the sharp edge of the door and I cannot stop the “humph” of pain that escapes my lips. Two words... Two words... and just like that the little ray of hope inside of me is swallowed by the darkness and all that is left of its lie is the nasty chemical sweetness coating the back of my tongue.

Already a disaster, I quickly sidle the rest of the way through the door and try to turn to face the classroom. But, as if things aren’t bad enough, of course the strap of my backpack catches on the door’s handle and I’m yanked backwards even as the door pulls fully open with an absurdly loud “creak” that echoes off the classroom walls. 

I’ve had this backpack since 3rd grade and it seems the old blue plastic and the silver duct tape just can’t hold themselves together anymore.The strap of my pack pulls right off its backing, but not before tearing a huge gash right through the midline of Sailor Moon’s winking face. And all of a sudden, my textbooks and my Hello Kitty binder, my scribbled homework and beat-up composition notebooks, my Power Rangers pencil case and my dollar-store calculator... All the pieces of me... Erupt from the pack and spew onto the floor with a clatter along with all that what was left of my dignity. 

I thought I was having a bad morning. I was wrong. This morning started off bad and has only gotten worse. I’m having a TERRIBLE morning. 

“Alexandria,” The voice speaks again and I cringe under it, cowering as if the sound, itself, might somehow magically grow a hand to spank me across the butt with. “You’re late again.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Indra.” I choke out, trying to find my voice under the icy glare of the teacher and 60 other staring eyes. I keep my own eyes on the ugly orange-brown linoleum beneath me. I don’t have to see them to know that every kid in this room is staring at me, watching me hastily shove my things back into my ruined backpack, cradling Sailor Moon’s face against my chest to keep her from breaking open further, and maybe to keep myself from breaking open further too. 

The sounds of half-stifled snickers and soft giggles follow me across the back of the room, beating on my eardrums like gongs and cymbals. And I think my face might just catch fire as I begin my walk of shame. 

“Geek!” I hear Ontari hiss as I reach her desk. She sticks a foot into my path to try to trip me, but I’m not dumb enough to fall for that again, and I shoot her the best stink-eye I can muster as I step over her Converse All-Stars and slink towards my desk. 

“Come see me during recess.” Ms. Indra commands, eyeing me through her dark-brown, almost black eyes, as I sink into my chair. Its plastic is mercifully cool against the heat of my burning skin. 

“Yes, ma’am.” I answer in a small voice, trying my hardest not to mumble. Ms. Indra hates it when I mumble. 

“Wow! That was quite the entrance.” Raven giggles from beside me as I shove my stupid backpack into the cavern of my desk, wishing I could shove myself in with it. “But next time you should get someone to warn us first. Like have one of the 2nd graders blow a trumpet or a kazoo to announce your approach so we can get our cameras ready.”

“Shut up, Raven.” I grumble, giving her a playful shove with my elbow. 

“Seriously, though...” She whispers. “If I had known, I could’ve gotten that on video and posted it on my YouTube channel. It probably would’ve gotten more likes than the vid of Helios jumping on Bell’s head last year.”

“No way,” I whisper back, feeling my reddened cheeks pulling into a smile at the memory of Octavia’s fat, ginger cat leaping from the top of the bookshelf directly onto Bellamy’s head right as the two of them took in deep breaths, preparing to blow out their candles. Helios’ piercing howl had made the perfect off-key finale to our rendition of the ‘Happy Birthday’ song and Bellamy’s eyes hadn’t even gone wide with surprise before the flying ball of orange fur had collided with his head, knocking his pointed cardboard hat askew and pushing him face-first into the Ninja Turtles cake. He had smashed into Mikey and the frosting had left streaks of doo-doo green across his cheeks as he smeared the sugary mess from his face. Helios had let out a last angry screech and scampered off while Octavia had just laughed at her twin. And I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she had been wishing for something like that to happen as she had stared down at her flickering candles. 

“That video was epic.” I laugh. “There’s no way I can top Helios. He’s the star of all of your best videos.”

Raven and I quickly stifle our giggles as Ms. Indra’s frosty glare falls on me again, and I duck my head into my desk, pulling out my science textbook as an excuse to avoid its cold. I’ve had a terrible morning. And I know my recess appointment with Ms Indra will turn it into a terrible, HORRIBLE morning. But I’m still smiling as I flip my textbook open in search of the drawing of the Solar System. Because with Raven beside me, nothing ever seems quite so bad.

“Jupiter has sixty-seven moons.” Ms. Indra continues the lesson I so spectacularly interrupted, pulling her frown off of me and turning to the blackboard to scribble ‘Galilean Moons’ across it. The other teachers use hot-pink and bright-orange and neon-green and electric-blue chalk in pathetic attempts to make their lectures less boring. But not Ms. Indra. She only ever uses classic, no-nonsense white. 

“Sixty-seven moons.” She repeats. “The most out of any of the planets in our Solar System. Its four largest moons are known as the Galilean Moons. Can anyone name any of them?”

My desk wobbles as Raven’s hand shoots into the air beside me, making my eyes roll and my small smile pull a little wider. 

“Anyone?” Ms. Indra challenges again, scanning the room. Ms. Indra’s eyes avoid Raven’s as fiercely as the rest of us try to avoid hers. 

“Io...” I mutter under my breath, playing with the corner of the page, folding it and unfolding it and folding it again. “Europa...”

I actually know the answer to this one. I’ve known pretty much everything there is to know about the Solar System and the space beyond it since I was little and my dad used to drag me out to the backyard with him every time the night was clear enough to spot the stars. And we would huddle together in the itchy grass under my Lion King sleeping bag as he pointed out the sparkling smudge of the Milky Way and named the tiny glints of stars and planets and lifted my finger to trace out the constellations shining weakly against the black. 

I used to love everything about outer space. I loved it because HE loved it. And I loved him.

And I don’t love it anymore. Not even a little bit. In fact, I think I might just hate it.

And I try not to look at the horribly inaccurate diagram of the Solar System on the page beneath my fingertips as much as I try to never look up at the night sky above me whenever I find myself alone in the darkness. And I just fold and unfold and refold the corner. 

Because the stars... The planets... Everything that shimmers in the void of space... They all make me think of him and the void he left inside of me. And I hate it, because no matter how hard I try... No matter how tightly I close my eyes... No matter how hard I dig my knuckles into my temples... I cannot ever remember him properly. 

I cannot remember the exact timbre of his laughter or the way it crinkled the skin around his eyes until they watered and his cheeks turned red. I can’t remember the exact shades of gray swirling in those green eyes or the sound of his voice when he called out ‘I’m home!’ in his ridiculous Donald Duck impression. I can’t remember the exact feel of his strong callused palms wrapped gently around my tiny hands or the tips of his fingers playfully prodding the ticklish spots between my ribs. I cannot remember the exact smell of him, the combination of Old Spice and Irish Spring and grass and sweat and hard work. I can’t remember ANY of it properly.

But the stupid names of the stupid Galilean Moons? Yup... I remember all of those perfectly. 

“Anyone?” Ms. Indra asks again, almost pleadingly, looking increasingly disappointed in her pathetic pupils. My desk is trembling now and if I wasn’t so used to the shake, I might mistake it for an earthquake. But I know it is only the aftershocks emanating from the epicenter of Raven’s good leg bouncing against the floor beneath her as she practically hovers in her seat, desperately waving her hand to get Ms. Indra’s attention. 

Ms. Indra lets out a defeated sigh as she’s done a thousand times before. “OK Rav-” She pauses in surprise. “Yes... Clarke?”

Clarke? I pull my eyes from the corner of my dog-eared page where the crease I’ve worked into it is already starting to tear like the sad line running down Sailor Moon’s forehead on my poor, old backpack. And I look up to see a hand floating tentatively in the space above a head of wild, blond, wavy hair.

“Io.” A small voice says. It is high and delicate, soft and pretty, and makes me think of birds. “Europa, Callisto, and Gany... Ganymede.”

“Very good, Clarke.” Ms. Indra says and I swear for half a second I actually see her flash a smile. The earthquake in our corner of the room stops abruptly as Raven slumps back into her chair with a ridiculous pout on her face. 

“Great... Another geek.” Ontari snickers from a few desks over and I see the head of messy blond waves sink a little lower in its seat. And though I don’t even know the girl, I feel myself bristling with anger as more snickers and giggles echo across the classroom. I’m seriously considering chucking my floppy pink eraser at the back of Jasper’s laughing head when Ms. Indra silences the laughter for me.

“Enough.” She calls out in the voice that I swear sometimes makes the hairs on my arms stand up like Ms. Indra is a bigger, darker, scarier version of Queen Elsa, and has the magical power to bring Winter along with her wherever she goes. “Ontari... Perhaps you could tell me which of those four moons is the driest known object in our Solar System and is covered in volcanoes?”

Ontari glares up at Ms. Indra for a long moment and for one second I think she might actually open her sassy mouth and earn herself a detention. But even Ontari is neither brave, nor stupid enough to talk back in Ms. Indra’s class.

“Uhhh... Calliopamede?” Ontari guesses as more laughter rings through the classroom.

“Exactly as I suspected.” Ms. Indra shakes her head. “Maybe instead of teasing others for studying you should try opening a book yourself, for once. That goes for ALL of you...” She calls out over the growing snickers. “We’ll see how many of you are laughing after the test on Friday.”

I turn to Raven as a collective groan reverberates around the classroom at Ms. Indra’s words.

“Clarke?” I whisper. “Who’s Clarke?”

“New kid.” Raven shrugs.

“Well, duh...” I roll my eyes. “I figured out THAT much.”

“All I know is Ms. Indra introduced her as ‘Clarke Griffin from California.’” Raven mumbles as I crane my neck, trying to get a better view of the girl. 

“So...” Ms. Indra speaks again. “Who CAN tell me which of the moons is covered in volcanoes?” 

The earthquake returns in full force and I watch to see if Clarke raises her hand again, but she remains slumped in her chair. And I wonder if, like me, the girl mutters the answer under her breath as Ms. Indra sighs and turns her gaze to Raven.

***...***

The recess bell finally rings and I try to get a better look at the new girl, but all I catch is a glimpse of a light blue windbreaker before she is swallowed in the chaos of our classmates laughing and pushing and shoving each other through the door. I rise from my chair, duck my head, and try to meld into the edges of the throng, but Ms. Indra hasn’t forgotten. Ms. Indra never forgets.

“Lexa,” She calls. “Just where do you think you are going?”

“Nowhere, ma’am.” I sigh as Raven whispers a soft, sympathetic, “Good luck.” And limps her way into the crowd. 

I slowly meander my way through the rows of the small, cluttered desks of my classmates up to the massive, pristinely organized desk in the front of the room. I take a deep breath and swallow hard, preparing myself for whatever wintry storm is coming my way.

“You were late again today, Lexa.” Ms. Indra tells me as if I need reminding; as if I forgot the terrible, horrible morning I had. 

“I’m sorry.” I mumble because I do not know what else to say.

“Speak clearly.” Ms. Indra scolds me. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Indra.” I say more loudly.

“You are ALWAYS sorry, Lexa.” Ms. Indra sighs. “But I’m afraid remorse is no substitute for punctuality. You were over an hour late today, Lexa. I can overlook five minutes... Maybe ten. But an hour? It is unacceptable. Do you have a reason to give me this time?”

I consider my options, wondering how much I should tell her; wondering how much I can get away WITHOUT telling her. I could tell her the truth; I could tell her all about my terrible, horrible morning.

“My alarm didn’t go off.” Is all I say.

“Your alarm didn’t go off?” Ms Indra repeats, flatly. “I think what you mean is that you did not set your alarm properly.” She corrects me.

Actually, I mean precisely what I said. My alarm DIDN’T go off. And it wasn’t because I didn’t set it properly. It was because they came and cut the electricity sometime in the early hours of the morning, because apparently Mom failed to pay the bill on time again. But I don’t tell Ms. Indra that. I just bite my tongue as she continues.

“An alarm clock is a tool, Lexa. If it is to be helpful it has to be used properly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I mutter, staring down at the hole in my sneaker where my big toe has finally burrowed its way out. I wiggle it nervously, still biting my tongue as I accept the reprimand.

The truth is, my alarm DIDN’T go off. But that isn’t the reason I was late. I’ve long trained my body to wake up with the sun, knowing the electricity, like the water and the gas, could go out at any moment. And it could be days before my mother scrounges up enough money to get it turned back on.

I woke up on time this morning. I got dressed on time. I shoved my books and my homework and my everything into Sailor Moon’s bandaged face on time. And I was still on time when I stepped from the bedroom into the living room and found her, asleep, her body draped half on the sofa, half on the floor, a thin film of vomit still drying over the glistening silver rhinestones on her shirt.

I could have walked right past her. I could have rummaged through the empty kitchen cupboards for some stale cornflakes to shove in my fist as I walked right out the door. I could have caught my bus. I could have been on time. 

But instead I had rummaged through the empty cupboards for coffee. And I had pried the bottle of alcohol and the bottle of pills from her clammy fingers, given her a hard shake, and shoved the steaming mug into her shaky hands instead. And I had helped her drag herself to the bathroom, wriggle out of her soiled tank-top and miniskirt and into the cold water, then the fluffy pajamas and then the thin blanket covering our stained mattress. And I had climbed back into the bed beside her and rubbed circles on her back until the trembling stopped and the snoring started. And I had rolled back out of the bed, grabbed my pack, locked the door behind me, and started the long walk to school, no longer on time. Not even remotely on time. 

Ms. Indra eyes me up and down and her eyes linger on the hole in my thin shirt and the hole in my high-water jeans and the hole in my too-tight sneakers. But I feel like she is really looking past all of that and peering into the hole in my soul. 

“How did you get to school today, Lexa?” She asks.

“Walked.” I mutter.

“You live over in Greenwood Apartments, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s about a four mile walk...”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She considers me for a moment. “Did you wear a jacket today?”

“No, ma’am... I...” I can’t get my jacket over my long, lanky arms. I’ve grown too much since last winter. “I forgot to grab it, because I was in a hurry.”

Ms. Indra just stares at me. Her eyebrows pull together. Her lips pull together. My toe still wiggles. Now my thumbs join in. Ms. Indra isn’t yelling at me or scolding me anymore, but the concerned look on her face right now is so much worse than the frowns of anger or annoyance. The questions are so much worse than the reprimands. Ms. Indra looks comfortable in her thick black cardigan, but I’m starting to sweat beneath my thin shirt.

“How are things at home, Lexa?” She asks.

“Ma’am?” I say, because I do not know how to answer.

“You live with your mother, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She couldn’t give you a ride to school today?”

“No, ma’am. She...” Doesn’t have a car. “Works late and sleeps through the mornings.” And the afternoons. 

“I see... What does your mother do for work?”

“She’s...” A cocktail waitress. Sometimes, when the electricity or the water or the gas gets turned off, she’s an exotic dancer. “She works in a...” Nightclub. “Restaurant.”

“I see... And your mother can’t help you wake up in time for school?”

“No, ma’am. Like I said, she...” Sometimes doesn’t come home. “Gets home late. And is usually...” Passed out. “Asleep when I get up.”

“I see. And do you make yourself breakfast every morning, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Stale cornflakes when I can find them. “Cereal.”

Ms. Indra scrunches her lips to the side, then pulls them between her teeth, then runs her tongue over them, considering me all the while. And I just wiggle and avoid her eyes. 

“OK. Well...” She sighs. “You’ve been significantly late three times this past month. I’m afraid that if it happens again I will have to contact your mother and we will have to discuss our options for getting you to school on time in the future.”

“Yes, ma’am. It won’t happen again. I promise.” I lie through my teeth.

She gives me a dismissive nod and I try to walk calmly from the room, when all I want to do is run.

***...*** 

I step into the chilly October air and I take a deep breath, already tasting the threat of the coming winter in the wind. And I look out over the crowded playground, scanning it for Raven’s jet-black ponytail. But my eyes fall on Ontari’s back first. As always, she’s flanked on either side by her mindless friends, Echo and Roan... The three stooges. And even from a distance, it’s obvious they are picking on someone. And I’m already having a terrible, horrible day. And I don’t need their crap right now. And I know that my bad day is about to become a terrible, horrible, NO GOOD day.

I clench my fists and stomp across the blacktop feeling all of the anger and frustration of this morning bubbling in my blood like someone shook up a bottle of Root Beer, dumped an alka-seltzer into it and pumped the whole foaming mess into my veins. Because, honestly... It’s been two years since Raven limped into our classroom... And they’re STILL making fun of her clubfoot? It wasn’t funny two years ago. And it’s not funny now.

“Hey!” I shout out across the grass. “Mess with her and you mess with me!”

“Oh look...” Ontari scowls, turning towards me with her hands on her hips. “It’s Geek #1 coming to rescue Geek #2!”

Ontari could be pretty if her eyes weren’t always narrowed in anger, if her forehead wasn’t always creased and her nose scrunched up and her lips pulled back in a snarl or a cocky smirk. When I was little and asked my father if I was ‘pretty,’ he told me I was beautiful because my soul was beautiful. He told me, ‘women like to put on fancy clothes and make-up, but a girl is only ever as pretty as her soul, Lexa.’ And from what I’ve seen of it, I’m guessing Ontari’s soul is black and shriveled and ugly, ugly, ugly. 

“Shut up, Ontari!” I growl. “Just because she’s smarter than the three of you stooges combined...”

“Why don’t you stay out of this, Lexa!” Ontari spits. “Keep your ugly nose in a book where it belongs, and out of our business.”

“Yeah... Stay out of this, Lexa.” Echo echoes Ontari and I roll my eyes at her stupidity. Echo’s real name is Isabella Eccovani, but we all call her ‘Echo’ because she never has an original thought in her dumb head. She might as well be an ugly parrot sitting atop Ontari’s shoulder. It’s hard to say who’s the bigger mindless idiot: Echo, or Roan who barely ever says a word, but just stands beside Ontari cracking his thick knuckles and leering like a troll. 

“Leave her alone!” I spit back at Ontari, my fingers starting to shake as I ball them and unclench them and ball them again. I want to punch Ontari on her ugly, smug face. I want to drive my knuckles into the soft spot between her sharp nose and her curled upper lip.

“Why don’t you make me, huh?” Ontari challenges me. 

“Yeah... Why don’t you make her?” Echo repeats. We both ignore her.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned anything since the last time I kicked your ass.” Ontari smirks.

Before my angry brain can think of a comeback, Ontari’s dark eyes dart past me and roll dramatically in her head. “Oh great... Here comes Geek #3! Now we’ve got the whole nerd squad. Quick, someone call the circus... Tell them we’ve got the Geeks AND the Freak!” 

“The Geeks AND the Freak!” Echo repeats through a laugh as I turn in confusion at the weight of a hand on my shoulder.

And for a moment I just stare, blinking stupidly, utterly confused, because the hand on my shoulder belongs to Raven.

“Lexa... You can’t get into another fight.” She warns me. “Remember what Master Anya said?”

I stare at her lips, but I’m still too confused to even register what she is saying. Because if Raven is standing right in front of me, then who the H-E-Double-Toothpicks have I been defending this whole time?

“What’s a matter, Lexa?” Ontari taunts me. “Afraid of getting another beat down?”

But I ignore the jeer and, for the first time, I look past Ontari and her idiots. And I get my first proper look at the face beneath the wild, golden locks.

If possible, the girl looks even angrier than I feel. Her cheeks are flushed red, her lips are pulled tight, and her jaw is clenched so tightly it looks painful. Her eyes are bluer than the Autumn sky above us and they burn hotter and brighter than the weak October sun. And the golden mane of hair and the wildness in her eyes makes me think of the lion I saw at the zoo during our end-of-the-year fieldtrip last year. And I think to myself that this girl should not be caged any more than he should be. 

And I find myself blinking in surprise at her and wondering what kind of soul this girl must have. Because, even with the anger all over her face, I know without a doubt that she is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

And, distracted as I am, I don’t realize Ontari is threatening me until she is right up in my face, so close I can smell the bacon of her breakfast still stinking on her breath and see the ugly scar that splits the edge of her eyebrow and runs down along her cheekbone. She has her fists raised and her feet split into a fighting stance and, without even thinking about it, my body mimics hers. I’m on the balls of my feet now, my eyes dropping from her face to study her shoulders and hips, watching for the attack.

“Lexa...” Raven argues. “Save it for States.” But I can barely hear her over the rush of blood in my ears.

Ontari’s hips swivel. She’s coming with her back leg and I’m preparing to dodge the blow when a sudden, deep voice bellows through the tense space between us.

“Do we have a problem here, girls?”

Ontari immediately drops her fists and plasters a fake smile across her face. “No, Mr. Gustus.” She says in a sweet, girly voice. “We were just practicing our sparring. Getting ready for States.”

“The bell’s about to ring any minute now.” Mr. Gustus warns in the massive, gruff voice that so perfectly matches his massive, gruff body. “Why don’t you all head back to class?”

“Yes, Mr. Gustus.” Ontari smiles again, pulling Roan and Echo by the wrists. “Come on, guys. We don’t want to be late for Math.” She drops her voice to a whisper as she shoves past me. “I’ll kick your ass at States, Geek #1.”

“Raven,” Mr. Gustus calls as the Stooges wander off. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the possibility of you entering this year’s science fair.”

“I thought the fair was only for 7th and 8th graders...” Raven replies, following Mr. Gustus towards his classroom.

“The judging committee is considering making an exception in your case.” Mr Gustus answers. But I’m no longer listening, because the blazing blue eyes have found mine and I can see nothing but the girl in front of me.

“Hey...” I call, taking a tentative step towards her. “Don’t worry. The Three Stooges... Ontari and her idiot friends... They’re just a bunch of butt-heads. Ontari’s just jealous because you’re smart.” I mean to stop there, but for some stupid reason my lips keep moving and I hear my tongue blurt out the words I only ever planned on thinking. “And you’re pretty.”

I instantly feel myself blushing and spit out, “I’m Lexa.” As fast as I can, hoping to somehow obliterate the words that already filled the space between us. I smile and start to extend my hand, then, thinking it’s maybe too formal, I turn it into an awkward wave instead. The girl just frowns at me, the fire still burning in her eyes like the noonday sun in the peak of the Summer sky.

“You’re Clarke, right?” I offer.

“I didn’t need you to rescue me.” The girl suddenly growls at me and the voice that made me think of birds now makes me think of a wildcat, meaner and more feral than Helios.

“I wasn’t trying to rescue you...” I stutter, shrinking back from the heat of her glare. “I just...”

“I can fight for myself!” She hisses, glaring into me. And her eyes are full of fire. And just beyond the flames, I think I catch a glimpse of hollowness before she shoves her way past me as roughly as Ontari did.

“I just...” I start, pivoting to watch her go. “I just thought maybe you could use a friend.” And the words come out as a mere mumble lost in the wind. Because the girl with the golden mane and the wild eyes and the names of Jupiter’s moons inside of her is already stomping across the blacktop, far from the reaches of my voice.


	2. Lost in the Blue

Chapter 2  
Lost in the Blue  
OR  
Anger Makes You Stupid (At Least According to Master Anya’s Heel)

LEXA

“Jeez, Woods!” Octavia groans, doubling over slightly and pulling at the top of her chest protector, trying to suck in the muggy air swirling around us. “You been doing squats and lunges secretly after class every night, or what? Hello? I’m OCTAVIA! Not ONTARI!”

“What?” I ask, pulling my distracted, foggy mind to the present.

“I said... I’m OCTAVIA... Not ONTARI. Why are you kicking me so damn hard? Do you WANT me to puke up my chicken nuggets all over you?”

I finally pull my eyes from the giant blue target circles on her chest protector and give my head a shake, trying to force myself to focus on the hazel eyes in front of me. But all I still see is blue. Because Octavia got it wrong... I wasn’t thinking of Ontari’s muddy brown eyes. I was thinking of eyes bluer than the target on Octavia’s chest; eyes bluer than the sky. 

“Do you want to talk about it? Or should I go grab another hogu? Or maybe TWO?” Octavia grumbles, pointing to the messy, lopsided stack of tattered and smelly back-up chest protectors piled in the corner of the gym.

“Sorry...” I mutter. “I just had a terrible, horrible, no good-”

“Alright class, get some water. Two minute break, then grab a partner and paddles.” Anya directs and Octavia, still rubbing at her chest, ditches me before I can finish my sentence. I move to follow the others towards the drinking fountain, but I stop when a hand wraps around my wrist.

“Not you, Lexa.” Anya says. “Let’s step.”

“Do you want to put a hogu on?” I ask, confused.

“No.” Anya answers. “I don’t need one. Hit me as hard as you want.” 

She nods her head at me, giving me a quick, informal bow, before raising her fists and moving into fighting stance. I copy her, bending my knees slightly and bouncing on the balls of my feet. I inch forward cautiously and Anya lets me creep into her space until I am close enough to be tempted into throwing my off-the-line, right, round-kick. It’s my bread-and-butter, powerhouse technique, and I confidently throw my weight into it. But Anya slides back quickly and easily dodges my incoming instep. Already frustrated, I follow the attack with a double-kick, throwing my left, then right round-kicks rapidly in the air. Anya V-steps to my right, then jams me as I throw my front leg fast-kick. 

“Come on, Woods...” She says as we bump chests and shove shoulders in the clinch. “Hit me!” she demands, even as she dodges my padachagi, my sad attempt at round-kicking her midair as I slide out of the clinch. 

I throw kick after kick, my toes barely grazing the flaps of her uniform, let alone making any contact with ribs or stomach. Left leg fast-kick... Right leg round-kick... Right leg fast-kick... Left leg round-kick... It doesn’t matter what I throw at her, Anya easily sidesteps or slides away from or into every attack. And I’m panting now from equal parts physical exertion and pure frustration. Anya isn’t kicking me back. She’s playing with me. But she’s not wearing her usual playful, cocky smirk. She’s frowning at me in anger and disappointment.

“Hit me!” She commands again, jamming my double-kick and moving us back into another clinch. She shoves me with her chest and shoulders, turning me, flustering me. “Let’s go, Woods... Hit me like you were hitting Octavia! Hit me!”

I feel sweat burning in my eyes and lactic acid burning through my calves and quads, but it is nothing like the anger burning in my chest. I throw another round-kick, then spin to follow it with a tornado-round-kick, furiously launching all of my weight into the power of the kick. But as I come out of the spin, Anya is not where I expected her to be, and suddenly there is a dirty heel dragging against the ridge of my cheekbone and smearing sweat and grime across my lips. 

I know Anya’s spinning-hook-kick should have knocked me out. There should be lights flashing behind my eyelids and blood dripping down my face as bright red as the belt wrapped around my waist. But Anya has perfect control, and I feel no pain. My mouth had been hanging open in surprise when I saw her foot coming for my face, and I rub my salty tongue against my saltier, sweaty shoulder, trying to get the nasty taste of the mats off of its tip.

Anya turns away from me and addresses the rest of the class, which has gathered around us, watching and snickering as I frantically wipe at my mouth. “I said partner up.” Anya calls out. “One hundred alternating axe-kicks, then switch holders.”

At the collective whining and groaning from the class, she eyes everyone impatiently and calls out again. “What’s wrong everyone? Some of you sound disappointed. Is one hundred not enough? Alright... Since you all insisted, let’s make it one-fifty.”

I move to find Octavia again as everyone bites their tongues and pairs off across the mats. But once again Anya snags my wrist.

“Not you, Lexa.” She says, and the anger has drained from her voice as suddenly as it had filled it. “Sit down.”

I plunk down obediently at the edge of the mats, leaning my sweaty back against the mirrors, knowing one of us will have to scrub them clean after class, but too tired to care. I mop the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve in a smooth, practiced motion I’ve done a thousand times before, class after sweaty class. The edge of my sleeve is tinged a nasty yellow-brown from sweat stains that no amount of bleach seems able to remove.

“Lexa,” Anya begins in her normal voice, the one that echoes of wisdom and resounds with knowledge; the one that I respect more than any other in this world. “Some fighters like to channel their anger before they step into the ring. Anger brings the same rush of adrenaline as fear. Except that anger drives you forward instead of pulling you back. It overrides the fear and it overpowers the pain.”

“But...” She continues. “If you do not know how to control it, anger makes you stupid. You rush into attacks without planning them. Your narrowed eyes tell me exactly what you are about to do before you even realize you’ve decided to do it. You abandon your footwork and you leave your defenses wide open. When properly harnessed, anger can have its place in the ring, but you can’t let it blind you. You can’t let it make you stupid. You have to use your brain. What’s the best way to win a match?”

“Fight with your brain first and your body second.” I recite the words I’ve repeated more times than I could ever count.

“That’s right.” Anya rests a palm on my sweaty kneecap. “Now... Tell me... What’s going on, kid?” She asks in that tone that makes me think of her more as an older sister than as my instructor. “Something happen today?”

I think of vomit-covered rhinestones. I think of Sailor Moon’s torn face and Jupiter’s moons and my father’s too blurry face. I think of Ms. Indra’s dark eyes peering through all of the holes in me. I think of Ontari’s snarl. Most of all, I think of blazing, blue eyes and golden hair. 

“I just had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” I sigh.

“Bellamy... Get your legs up higher! You’re not in the Little Dragons’ class with the four-year-olds anymore.” Anya bellows before turning her kind eyes back to me. They are a soft brown that makes me think of tree bark and damp earth. “Everything OK at home?”

It’s the same question Ms. Indra threw at me this morning, but with Anya I don’t have to hide anything. “Define ‘OK.’” I mutter bitterly.

Anya gives me a small smile. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” I sigh. “It’s just the same old, same old. I guess sometimes I just get a little tired of it all, you know?”

“Yeah, kid... I know.” Anya pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll give you a ride home after practice, alright?” She adds as she rises to her feet, the dangling tips of her black belt gently brushing against my cheek as she steps over me to go supervise the others.

I linger for another moment, gathering the strength to push the sweaty mess of myself up off of the mats. I know that Anya’s offer of a ride home is so much more than just a lift. I know she will stop somewhere and make sure I get a proper dinner. I know that she’ll only eat half of whatever she orders, then pretend that she’s full and insist that I take her leftovers home. I know she’ll give me encouraging sparring tips and pointers and she’ll let me ramble on about stupid, meaningless things like the books I am reading or the newest songs on the radio. I know she will let the silence linger if she senses I don’t want to talk and I know she’ll crack cheesy jokes if the silences get too thick, too heavy. And I know she will say ‘Goodnight, Little Fighter,’ as I shut the car door and that she won’t drive away until I’m safe inside.

“I said ‘Get your legs up, Bellamy.’” Anya calls and I watch as she smacks a kicking paddle across Bellamy’s butt. And the anger inside of me leaks from my blood like the sweat leaks from my skin, until it is gone... Leaving nothing but the faded red in my cheeks, lingering like the yellow stain on my sleeve. 

***...*** 

“Thanks for dinner and for the ride and for... Everything.” I say as Anya pulls her Subaru to a stop outside my apartment. 

“No problem, kiddo.” Anya smiles. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow. And hey...” She pauses to give me a stern look. “Ditch your anger before you step onto the mats, got it?”

“Yes ma’am.” I answer sheepishly.

“Goodnight, Little Fighter.” She smiles again.

“Goodnight, Master Anya.” I call, stepping from the warmth of her Subaru and the warmth of her smile into the chilly night air, knowing she will watch as I trot all the way up to our third floor apartment before driving off into the darkness.

I open the door and step from darkness into deeper darkness. I grope for the light switch and give it a flick then toss my sparring gear onto the floor with a sigh and blindly bobble my way across the room to the kitchen to find a candle. Then I dig the rest of Anya’s sub out of my bag and set it on the kitchen counter. Of course Anya ordered a footlong. Of course Anya didn’t even touch half of it, laughing about how her eyes were always bigger than her stomach. Of course Anya wrapped it up and shoved the bundle into my arms, claiming she would never be able to find room in her fridge for it anyways. 

I snag a napkin and scribble over the diagonal EAT FRESH until it reads EAT ME instead and even though I’m frowning, I draw a smiley face beneath it. Then, out of habit, I open the refrigerator door and shake my head at my own stupidity because of course it isn’t any colder than the chilly air in the kitchen. So I just set the sandwich on the counter top and hope Mom comes home before it spoils.

I brush my teeth with water because no matter how many times I fold the tube in on itself, no matter how hard I dig my thumb into it, I can’t get anything more out of this generic, minty Colgate rip-off. And I shiver my way through a shower just barely long enough to rinse the dried salt and grime from my skin. Then I look in the mirror at my reflection flickering in the candlelight, and I tell myself that everything’s alright. And I know by the hollowness in my green eyes that even as my own mouth utters the words, even as they fall on my own ears, I don’t believe a single syllable. 

I squeeze into my too-tight flannel pajamas,with my bony ankles and wrists hanging out of the sleeves. And I stare down at the Eeyore stretched across my chest, wondering just when my body decided it was time to outgrow Winnie the Pooh. And I climb beneath the thin sheet, wrapping it tightly around me as I pull my knees as far into my chest as possible, seeking the warmth of my own skin. 

And I blow out the fluttering flame and extinguish its sad little circle of yellow light. And I stare into the blackness around me. But again, all I see is blue. Bright, bright, blue.

‘I can fight for myself.’ The girl’s voice echoes in the hollow space between my ears. And I remember the fire in her eyes and I know those words were true. And I remember the hollowness in her eyes, and I know that even as her own lips uttered them, even as the words fell upon her own ears, she hadn’t believed a single syllable.


	3. All Wrong, Wrong, Wrong

Chapter 3  
All Wrong, Wrong, Wrong  
OR  
The Perfect Cookies to End a Perfect Day

CLARKE

Clarke paused on the front step, taking a deep, deep breath before reaching out for the brass door handle glinting in the amber rays of the setting sun. The chilly air swirling around her, tugging at her sleeves and finding its way into her windbreaker was so fresh and clean and pure she could practically taste the pines and the bark and damp earth in it. And she hoped it would sink through her lungs and seep into her, below the surface where her uneasy nerves were still vibrating beneath her thin skin. 

And Clarke had planned to hold the breath until she felt the calm spread through her chest, unraveling the tight and tangled parts of her. But she barely lasted a second before she expelled the air in a forceful sigh. Because this air was TOO fresh and TOO clean and TOO pure. And it was all wrong. 

She missed the smells and tastes of the air back home... The acidic taste of petrol and car exhaust, the salty hint of sea spray, the gloriously greasy scents wafting from taco trucks and hot dog stands and fast food joints all mingling in the air and battling each other on the tip of her tongue. 

Clarke closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool, solid, wooden door, and listened to the quiet around her, hoping that maybe THAT might soothe her nerves. The sounds whirling around her were soft and peaceful... The cheerful chatter of finches fluttering in the pines, the rythmic chich-chich-chich of a garden sprinkler, the distant hooting of an owl already welcoming the coming darkness. If she focused hard enough, Clarke could almost pretend the sound of the firs swaying gently in the wind was the sound of the ocean and the shore playing their endless game of hard to get. She could almost pretend. Almost.

But Clarke just sighed again. Because the noises here were TOO soft and TOO peaceful. She missed the sounds of back home... The blaring of horns under the hands of impatient drivers, the pounding of jackhammers on pavement and hammers on steel competing to be heard over the trumpets and guitars of the workers’ mariachi music, piercing sirens and howling dogs, and the constant comforting background noise of hundreds of people speaking at once, shouting into phones or hollering at friends or shushing crying toddlers or berating incompetent waiters and drivers and store clerks. 

Clarke was surrounded by cute wooden, brick, and stone houses, all painted in muted grays and blues and greens and browns, and all surrounded by luscious green lawns lined with rose bushes and rhododendrons and little dogwoods and massive oaks and always, the tall cedars and Douglas firs towering over everything and everyone else. She was surrounded by squirrels chasing each other through piles of dead leaves and up and down tree trunks, by families walking dogs and waving as they passed by, by health food stores and Subarus and bicyclists. 

And it was all wrong. 

She missed the concrete and the steel and the countless glass windows of the gritty, gleaming buildings. She missed the colorful, beat-up houses and apartments with their brown yards of dry, dead grass and thriving weeds. She missed the scrawny, lanky palm trees and the random orange trees lining the sidewalks, and the vibrant pink and purple bouganville and the massive clumps of oleander lining the massive stretches of highway. She missed the businessmen hustling by and the women in yoga pants pushing strollers with one hand and checking their instagram on their phones with the other. She missed the leering stares of the gangbangers, and the laughter of teenagers drinking and smoking on the street corners. She missed the 7-11’s and the rundown laundromats and the shady Chinese restaurants. 

But most of all... Most of all... Clarke missed the sun. She always thought the sun, like the moon and the stars, was a constant, a ball of fire that burned faithfully in the sky no matter where you went. But the sun here in Oregon was not the same sun she had left behind in California. It didn’t beat relentlessly on the crown of her head until she worried her hair might actually catch fire. It didn’t prickle her skin or pull sweat from her pores. It didn’t burn flashing white patterns into the back of her eyelids when she dared look at it too long. The sun here shone weakly, as if the oxygen in the pure, clean air here was too thick for the sun’s rays to properly penetrate. And it was only 4:30 pm and already the sun was giving up for the day, like a worn-out old man pulling out his dentures, turning the TV to golf, and plunking down into his lazy boy only to drift off to sleep. 

Clarke shivered as she watched the tired sun sink lower in the blue-gray sky. Even the clouds here were wrong. They weren’t fluffy and drifting. The clouds here were massed together into a solid sheet, like a blanket formed from a hundred different shades of gray all coming together to drape themselves over the sun. And it seemed to Clarke that, just like her, the sky above was always on the verge of tears.

Clarke allowed herself one last sigh... One last moment of remembering and longing and missing. Then she finally squeezed the door handle and crossed the threshold of the house that she feared she would never get used to calling ‘home.’

“Hey, Honey!” Her mother’s voice drifted to her from the kitchen. It was overly cheerful, like a bouquet of sunflowers in a funeral home, and Clarke cringed under the greeting. The unfamiliar scent of chocolate and browning butter wafted through the hall towards Clarke, and she realized as she turned the corner, that her mother was baking cookies. “How was your first day of school?”

Clarke blinked at her mother standing in the middle of the glistening kitchen wearing a cheerful flowery apron with matching potholders and a matching smile. She glanced at the plate of fresh cookies so perfectly baked they almost looked store-bought, sitting next to two tall glasses of milk. The glasses were sweating, the condensation collecting at their bases in little puddled rings. Abby lifted a glass, wiped it with a paper towel and handed it to her. Then she wiped the counter top dry until it glistened again, and propped the lid of the garbage can open to toss the towel into. And for the briefest of seconds Clarke caught the thick, acrid scent of burning in the air, before the can’s lid fell again, concealing the garbage within.

Clarke wondered how many batches of burnt cookies her mother had gone through before producing the perfect batch to place on the perfect counter top to greet Clarke after a perfect day. She imagined Abby frowning and muttering curse words under her breath as she scraped the crusty black cookies from the sheet and into the can. She imagined the sparkling counter top covered in flour and bits of slimy eggshells and streaks of melted butter and the points of her mother’s elbows as she propped her head in her hands the way she always would do when she was frustrated, massaging her temples until she found her patience again.

Clarke still hadn’t answered the question. It was a simple question. And it was oh, so complicated. How had her first day of school been? Terrible? Horrible? No good? Very bad? The truth was that it had been one of the worst days of Clarke’s twelve year existence on this planet. But Clarke looked at the plate of perfectly tanned cookies and the glass of milk in her hand and the smile plastered on her mother’s face, and she knew that there was no place in this pristine kitchen for the ugly, messy truth. 

So Clarke took a sip of the milk and put on a smile as fake as her mother’s. “Nice... My first day was nice.”

“Do you like your teacher?”

Clarke thought of Ms Indra with her deep, dark eyes and deep, icy voice. “Yep. She seems real nice.”

“And the other kids? Your classmates? Did you make any friends?”

Clarke thought of Ontari’s beady brown eyes glaring at her and the way her lip curled when she spat the word ‘geek,’ as if it was the dirtiest of curse words. She thought of the sound of the laughter ringing through the classroom at the word and how each snicker had been like an incredible hot weight falling on her chest, pushing her further down into her chair, burning her skin, and making it hard to breathe.

“Yeah... Everyone’s real nice.”

“That’s nice, honey.” Her mother smiled. “I’m so glad you had a nice day!”

Clarke looked at her mother once more, searching for the woman she once knew, the woman she once loved. And she knew that woman was somewhere deep, deep down, beneath the flowery apron and the cheerful smile, inside where the mess was. And Clarke knew that her mother was hiding the broken and bloody, hurting and afraid, mess of herself inside because every once in a while she would catch a glimpse of her real mother in this stranger’s eyes. Every once in a while this woman would open the garbage can of herself to shove more of the mess inside and for the briefest of moments Clarke could smell the burning.

And Clarke knew that it was for HER sake that her mother was hiding her mess behind the smile.

Clarke dropped her eyes to the platter of cookies and had the sudden, violent urge to pick up the plate and smash it against the sparkling tiles of the kitchen floor. She wanted the plate to shatter into a million shards. She wanted to stomp the cookies beneath her sneakers until they were nothing but a gooey, crumbly, sticky, brown mess. And she wanted to kick the trashcan over until the garbage spilled out of it, until the smell of burning filled her nostrils and made her lungs sting.

And Clarke wanted to shout at this woman who was not her mother. She wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her like an etch-a-sketch until the smile drawn on her face disappeared. She wanted to break her open until the mess inside of her spilled out for Clarke to see in all of its ugly, smelly, glory. 

And Clarke wanted to tell her mother that her day had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. She wanted to tell her that she hated it here; that everything about this place was wrong... All wrong. She wanted to scream and cry and break apart until her mother could see the mess inside of HER. She wanted her mother to see that she was melting inside like the water dripping from the glasses and puddling on the counter top. She wanted her mother to see that she was charred and dry and crusty and crumbling inside like a burnt cookie whose sweetness could never be salvaged.

But Clarke just took a bite of a cookie. And it was perfectly sweet and soft and buttery and fluffy and warm. And she took a sip of the milk to wash it down. Because it tasted all wrong in her mouth. And she put on a smile to match her mother’s. And by the look of relief in Abby’s eyes, she knew that’s what her mother wanted... A pristine daughter to match her pristine kitchen.

And it was for her mother’s sake that Clarke hid her mess behind the smile. 

***...*** 

Clarke shoved her Geometry textbook from her mattress and let it fall to the floor, where it became just an abandoned rectangle in the middle of her rainbow-colored rug. She pushed her homework over the edge next, letting the papers scatter and drift lazily to the floor like the ugly yellow-brown leaves falling from the tree outside of her window. She rolled onto her back and flopped an arm over her eyes.

Her homework had been far too easy. It had only taken her half an hour to complete. And though Clarke didn’t particularly enjoy measuring acute angles and finding the area of semicircles or the volume of cylinders, the last half hour had been the best thirty minutes of this whole stupid, awful day. Because with shapes and numbers and formulas swirling and colliding in her brain, there was no room left for her own thoughts. 

And now there was nothing left to occupy her mind with, and her thoughts were returning, wandering unbidden through the streets of her mind like homeless people pushing shopping carts filled with her unwanted memories and setting up tents in the dark corners of her brain. There was nothing to drive them away with now. And Clarke tried to duck her head and avoid their eyes and pretend she couldn’t hear them, but they called out to her, begging for her attention. 

And she didn’t want to think about any of it... She didn’t want to think about back home. She didn’t want to imagine Monroe and Harper and Fox and Roma all draped across Harper’s fluffy king-sized bed listening to Ariana Grande and Taylor Swift and the occasional Justin Beiber song whenever Roma hijacked the iPod, talking about boys and only doing their homework bit by bit in between giggles. She didn’t want to wonder whether there was still an empty spot on one corner of the bed or if their books and papers and backpacks had already spilled over into her area to fill her absence. She didn’t want to think about how bored Wells must be without her there to challenge him in chess or bike races through the park. She didn’t want to imagine him practicing his guitar alone in his cluttered room, making up new melodies and having no one to share them with.

She didn’t want to think of back home. And she didn’t want to think of this new place either. She didn’t want to hear the laughter of her classmates making her ears throb worse than the screech of nails on a chalkboard. She didn’t want to feel the shove of Ontari’s bony fingertips against her shoulder blades. She didn’t want to taste the overly sweet cookies served alongside the overly sweet smile. And most of all, she didn’t want to picture the hurt and confusion shining in the prettiest pair of eyes she had ever seen, the eyes that made her think of the ocean.

The girl’s eyes weren’t the color most people would picture when they thought of the ocean. They weren’t the pure blue of deep waters and endless miles of calm sea like Clarke’s were. She supposed you might label them ‘sea green,’ but somehow those two words just could not do them justice. Because the girl’s eyes weren’t just ‘sea green.’ They were the vibrant, almost translucent green you would see in the crest of a wave just before it slapped you in the face. Clarke had eyes the color of sunshine reflecting off the depths of the ocean. THIS girl had eyes the color of sunshine moving right through its shallows. They were so bright and clear it was like the girl’s green eyes had captured the soft light of the weak October sun and was holding onto it, saving it for a rainy day. 

Yes, they were the prettiest eyes Clarke had ever seen, shining brightly out of the prettiest face Clarke had ever seen framed by the prettiest wild, wavy, glossy brown hair Clarke had ever seen. The girl had smiled at her with pink in her cheeks and light in her eyes. And Clarke had spit at her until the smile drooped and the pink flushed to red and the light faded. Clarke had never met this girl. She had no logical reason to be angry at her. But she had been. And she had let the anger inside of her push away the only person who had offered her the free, undeserved gift of friendship. 

Clarke wasn’t angry at that girl. She was angry at the world... The world and everyone and everything in it. She had been angry at the world since March 3rd, the day they set her father in a hole six feet deep and left him alone in the darkness. And part of Clarke felt like she was alone in the darkness too. Because less than six months later her mother had put on that god-awful fake smile and held out two plane tickets to Oregon and told Clarke to start packing in a cheerful, flowery voice. Clarke knew that her mother needed change. She couldn’t stay any longer in a place where everything and everyone reminded her of her husband’s absence. Abby couldn’t breathe in California, surrounded by the memories. So she had dragged Clarke somewhere new and different where they could ‘start fresh.’

And Clarke was still surrounded by people and light, but all of it was so unfamiliar and different and strange and wrong... She might as well have been all alone in the darkness.

“Clarke, Honey?” A small rap on her bedroom door pulled Clarke from her thoughts and onto her elbows. The door cracked open and her mother’s face popped through it, hovering above the lavender-gray collar of her scrubs. “I have to head to the hospital. They have me working the night shift, so I won’t be home until morning. There’s lasagna keeping warm in the oven, ready whenever you are. And, if I get home in time, I’ll make you pancakes before you head out to school tomorrow, OK?”

The sickly, sweet smile was still on her mother’s face. Pancakes? Clarke could not recall a time when her mother had ever made her pancakes before. Her FATHER had been the pancake champion. He had always been the one who did the cooking. Her mother didn’t make pancakes. Her mother didn’t bake cookies. But this woman wasn’t her mother. Clarke wondered if maybe her mother was somewhere alone in the darkness too. 

“OK.” Clarke mumbled.

“If I’m not home in time, there’s cereal in the pantry... And I hope you have another nice day at school.”

“OK.” Clarke repeated, scrunching her face into her own fake smile. “Have a nice shift at the hospital.” 

“Thanks, Hun. I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” Clarke replied as the head bobbed back out the crack in the door. But the words were all wrong in Clarke’s ears. Because what she had really wanted to say is, “I miss you.”

***..*** 

When the rumbling of her tummy grew louder than her thoughts, Clarke dragged herself from the cushiony pit of her mattress, down the creaky wooden stairs, and into the still gleaming kitchen. The smell of marinara and garlic instantly made her mouth water and the rumbling in her tummy rose to a crescendo as she plopped a huge sloppy square of the pasta onto her plate. She shoved a giant bite into her mouth and then she set down her fork. Because the lasagna was all wrong.

It was too salty and too sweet and too mushy and too greasy. It was ALL wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sitting alone eating Marie Callender’s frozen, pre-cooked lasagna at a fancy wooden table big enough to seat eight. She was supposed to be sitting on a bar stool at the counter top, her feet dangling as she shoveled in her father’s homemade, from scratch, ‘Griffin’s-Secret-Recipe Lasagna.’ And he was supposed to be sitting beside her cracking stupid jokes in between bites and putting on his ridiculously high Mickey Mouse voice as he asked her how school was. 

He was supposed to be here. Because with him, she never needed a fake smile or a modified truth. He was supposed to be here so that she could pout and whine and tell him all about how she hated her new school and how she had no friends and how she missed home and how she missed HIM. And how, since the moment he had left, EVERYTHING was all wrong. And he was supposed to be here to pat her on the shoulder and kiss her forehead with his strong hand cradling the back of her neck as he assured her that everything would work out... Everything would get better with time. And he was supposed to be here so she could pout even further and mumble, ‘Yeah right... That’s what you ALWAYS say,’ as he just chuckled and mussed her wild hair. He was supposed to be here. 

Clarke shoved the lasagna into the fridge and snagged a bag of potato chips from the pantry instead. And she sat alone at the gleaming table and listened to the sound of the Ruffles crunching between her molars. And she could not say if the saltiness on her lips was from the potato chips or from the tears.


	4. Bothered

Chapter 4  
Bothered  
OR   
Blurry Pages and Dangerously Sharp Pencils

 

LEXA

“What is with you today?” Raven whispers, nudging me with one pointy elbow and two pointy eyebrows.

“What?” 

“You eat too much sucrose for breakfast?”

“What?” I ask again. I didn’t eat any breakfast. I had thought about eating Anya’s tuna sandwich, still sitting on the counter where I had left it for my mother last night. But I had given it one sniff and it had smelled so bad my stomach had flipped and then curled in on itself and I couldn’t even force the stale cornflakes into what was left of it. 

“You can’t sit still. You’ve been up to the front four times already since reading started.” Raven states.

“I had to sharpen my pencil.” I mutter, wondering if Raven can see that I’m blushing. I’m sure she can. Raven sees everything. 

“Right...” She says, clearly not fooled. “This pencil?” She snags my plain #2 pencil from my desk and holds it in the space between us, gripping it like a dagger. “The pencil that you had only sharpened five minutes ago? The pencil you hadn’t used at all during those five minutes and still aren’t using... Because we’re supposed to be doing READING?”

“Shhh...” I whisper, glancing nervously at Ms. Indra. She sits regally at her desk grading papers. I watch as she shakes her head, frowning as her red pen scribbles rapidly up and down someone’s worksheet. I hope it’s Ontari’s. “Give me back my pencil.”

“Why?” Raven asks, pulling it away quickly as I make a lunge for her hand. “You need to go sharpen it again?” She teases. 

“Fine.” I huff, turning away from her and forcing my eyes to stare down at the blurry pages in front of me. “Keep it... I don’t need it.”

“I know you don’t need it.” Raven laughs quietly. “That’s my whole point. Speaking of points...” She pauses, reaching into the space between us again. She holds my pencil out towards me, fingering its tip with her finger’s tip. “This thing’s sharp enough to spear someone with. Want me to throw it at Jasper?” She offers, eyeing the back of the boy sitting in the row before us, ignoring his book and carving something into the side of his desk with his own sharp pencil tip. “Its point might break off inside of him and then you would have another excuse to go sharpen it again.”

I give her my best silent sneer as I reach out and pluck the pencil from her hand before she has a chance to pull it away again. Raven just giggles softly and then digs through the back corner of her desk. When she pulls her hand back out, it’s clutching three obnoxiously pink and purple Hannah Montana pencils. She plunks them on my desktop.

“Here.” She laughs. “Knock yourself out. But... You may want to wait a few minutes before you go up again. Don’t wanna make it TOO obvious.”

“Make WHAT too obvious?” I whisper back, annoyed that I’m blushing again. Because even though I’m pretending I don’t know, I do. And Raven does too. And she knows I know she knows. Because, again, Raven sees everything.

“Has she noticed you yet?” Raven asks, no longer laughing.

I could pretend I don’t know who she’s talking about. I could put on my most innocently confused voice and say ‘Who?’ But I know she would just roll her big brown eyes and glare at me. Because there’s no point in playing the fool with Raven.

“She won’t even look at me.” I frown. “I think she’s still mad.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Lexa.” Raven whispers with her own small frown. “If she’s mad at you, let her be angry. That’s HER problem.”

Raven’s glaring at the back of Clarke’s golden head with annoyance and a little bit of anger in her eyes. I know the glare is on my behalf, and I’m grateful for Raven’s loyalty. But I’m no longer angry with Clarke. Confused... Absolutely. Maybe even a little sad. But not angry. And I’m flustered because I don’t know why I’m so bothered by the fact that Clarke is avoiding my eyes as if she’s repulsed by me, as if I have leprosy and she’s afraid that just by looking at me she might catch my sickness and her skin might start peeling off too.

Because Raven’s right. I DIDN’T do anything wrong. And it IS Clarke’s problem. And I shouldn’t care if she’s angry. I shouldn’t care if she’s repulsed by me. I shouldn’t care if she hates my guts, even if I’m completely confused as to why. I shouldn’t care what she thinks at all. But I do. And I’m even more confused about that. 

And I don’t know why I can’t keep my eyes on the page in front of me. I don’t know why I can’t make sense of the blurred words on the paper or why, even though I’ve read it three times already, I have no idea what the first paragraph is about. Because all I keep seeing are those angry blue eyes. And I can’t hear my voice reading the words because all I can hear is the girl’s angry growl, ‘I didn’t need you to rescue me.’ replaying in my head. And I don’t know why I keep walking by her desk, shuffling my feet slowly across the linoleum, staring at the top of her yellow head. I don’t know what I’m hoping will happen. Am I expecting her to look up and smile at me? To give me a friendly wave? 

It’s stupid... I know. And it’s only been one minute... Maybe two. But I’m restless. And I’m bothered. And I’m unfocused. And Raven’s right... I can’t keep still. And again my desk is shaking like there’s an earthquake in our corner of the room. And for once, it’s not Raven’s leg that’s causing the quake. For once, I’M the only natural disaster in this classroom. 

It’s stupid... I know. But I can’t stop myself.

So I snag a Hannah Montana pencil and I drag my feet across the linoleum through the sea of bored, blank faces and glazed eyes and books that have been opened to the same page for the last fifteen minutes. And I stare at the wavy blond curls as I slowly pass her. And she stares at the words on the page in front of her. And I wonder if her words are blurry too.

I shove the pencil into the old fashioned sharpener and crank its handle until strips of Miley’s face peel off in curly wooden shavings. And when its point is also sharp enough to spear Jasper with, I finally turn and begin my shuffle back to my desk. 

And it’s stupid... I know. But I hold my breath as I pass her desk for the tenth time, staring at the crown of her bowed head, hoping for something... I don’t even know what... Just SOMETHING to happen. 

And then, finally, something happens. Clarke lifts her face just enough to meet my eyes. And I suddenly realize THAT is what I was hoping for. THAT is what I wanted. Just to see those blazing, blue eyes again.

And now that they’re on me, I don’t know what to do. So I just stare into the blue and let them burn my pupils and warm my cheeks like the sun. And I give her a small smile. She doesn’t smile back. And I start to lift my arm, but change my mind and let it flop back to my side, because I already know she won’t wave back. And before I can read those blazing eyes my shuffling feet have carried me past her. 

I glance back at her just long enough to see her head is bowed again and she’s rubbing at her arm as if it itches or burns. And I wonder, if like me, she feels like her skin is peeling off. And I sink into my seat, avoiding Raven’s eyes as I force my own to look down at the blurry words in front of me. And I shouldn’t have gone up in the first place. It was stupid... And I should have known. 

 

***...***

 

“I’ll give you a carrot stick for a couple of your Cheetos...” Raven offers, waving a skinny, orange stick in front of Octavia as if she has mistaken her for a rabbit or a horse, instead of a twelve-year-old girl with no interest in vegetables, not even the ones that aren’t green. 

“Yeah right.” Octavia laughs, shoving Raven’s hand out of her face. 

“Come on...” Raven begs. “I just want a couple. It’s a fair trade... A great offer.”

“You’re offering me a CARROT.” Octavia argues, spitting the word as if she can already taste the vegetable’s earthiness on her tongue.

“No...” Raven counters. “I’m not just offering you a carrot. I’m offering you a dose of vitamin A. I’m offering you good eye health. Don’t you care about your eyes?”

It appears Octavia DOESN’T care about those hazel eyes, because she just rolls them in her head as she pushes Raven away again. But she DOES care about Raven. 

“Here, you beggar.” She huffs, dumping a handful of the Cheetos onto Raven’s lunch tray. “You can have some stupid Cheetos. But keep your nasty carrot sticks to yourself.”

“Do you want some too?” I hear Octavia ask someone.

But I’m only half listening, because I just spotted a head of wavy, golden hair. Clarke is standing on the edge of the cafeteria looking small and very much alone next to a giant round trash can. She’s scanning the room and rocking back and forth on her heels as if her feet want to move but they can’t agree on a direction.There’s panic in her blue eyes as she looks out on the sea of kids eating and laughing and goofing around. And she clutches her lunch tray as if it is a life jacket; as if she hopes her mashed potatoes and chicken-fried-steak can keep her afloat.

“Lexa? Earth to Lexa...”

“What?” I mumble, yanking my eyes from Clarke’s panicked face and forcing them to focus on the faces in front of me.

“Do you want some Cheetos, or what?” Octavia asks again, looking at me as if she’s a little worried about my mental health. 

“Oh.” I mutter. “No thanks... I’ll be right back, Guys.”

I push myself off the bench, snagging a perfectly clean white napkin and scrunching it in my fist as an excuse to walk the length of the cafeteria to the giant trashcan. But I don’t make it all the way there because as soon as she sees me coming Clarke finally chooses a direction and starts speed-walking through the rows of tables. I think about following her. I think about somehow finding the words to invite her to sit with us. 

But before I can decide, Clarke has reached the table where the Three Stooges rule, and Ontari throws a Converse All-Star into the aisle and Clarke’s life jacket goes tumbling through the air, splattering the ground with gravy and lumpy potatoes as Clarke stumbles. The combination of her lunch tray clattering against the floor and Ontari’s shriek of laughter pulls every eye in the room onto the scene. Some kids join in on the laughter. Others, like me, just stare, unable to look away as if watching a car crash or a burning building. 

“Geek!” Ontari hollers across the cafeteria as Clarke, abandoning her lunch, bolts through the crowd of eyes and out the nearest exit and into the chilly, October afternoon. 

And just like that, everyone goes back to eating and laughing and goofing off as if nothing just happened; as if there is no girl with red cheeks and yellow hair and blazing, blue eyes out in the cold with nothing but hunger and humiliation for company.

“Why do you have to be such a gigantic butthead?” I sneer at Ontari as I scrape what is left of Clarke’s lunch off of the linoleum. The mashed potatoes and the chicken are goners. But I snag the apple and an unopened packet of Goldfish from the floor. 

“Why do you have to be such a gigantic geek?” Ontari shrugs, smirking as she takes a bite from her own apple. “The clutz tripped over her own big-ass feet. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“You’re such a jerk.” Is all I say as I turn my back and walk away from her, clutching the apple and the Goldfish in my hands to keep them from shaking. And I try my hardest not to crush the cheddar crackers in my balled fist as I struggle to breathe. 

And I’m too furious to even consider going back to finish my own mashed potatoes. So I just stomp to the exit and follow Clarke out into the cold. I have no idea where she’s gone, and with nothing better to do, I just head back to the empty classroom early. And I polish the sad, bruised, little apple against the thin, worn denim of my jeans before I tuck it into the recesses of Clarke’s desk along with the sad, half-crushed, packet of Goldfish.


	5. Even in the Darkest of Places

Chapter 5  
Even in the Darkest of Places  
OR  
Pudding, Doritos, and All Things Sweet or Edible

CLARKE

Clarke watched the second-hand tick and tick and tick, tracing circles around the clock’s face as faithfully as the Moon around the Earth and the Earth around the Sun. But it seemed to her that no matter how many revolutions the second-hand made, the minute-hand stood resolutely still. Time was passing and passing and passing and still the minute-hand refused, refused, refused to move, as if it was terrified of meeting the 12 and had decided to take up permanent refuge with the 11. 

The earth moved. Grass grew and leaves fell. Old men breathed their lasts and infants cried their firsts. Planets collided and stars exploded and collapsed in on themselves. And then finally, finally, finally the minute-hand found the courage to face the 12 and the sharp ringing of the bell was enough to make even Ms Indra’s cold voice freeze.

“Remember, everyone...” Ms Indra called out over the screeching of chairs against the linoleum, the thudding of books against books, the zipping and unzipping of backpacks, and the excited laughter and shouts of children receiving their daily dose of freedom. “Science test tomorrow. Time to find out whose brains are filled with the knowledge of the Solar System and whose are still just full of empty space.” She chuckled at her own joke, not caring that no one else seemed to be listening.

Clarke had been waiting, waiting, waiting for the bell to ring. But now that it had sounded, she didn’t know what to do. Because she didn’t want to be in this classroom a single minute longer. But she didn’t want to go home either. So she took her time shoveling all of her things from her desk into her backpack as all the kids around her slung their own sacks over their shoulders and bolted for the door together. And no one called out to her as they passed, or grabbed her by the wrist to pull her along with them, or wished her a ‘goodbye.’ 

Clarke kept her head down as she packed all her things until all that remained were the sad remnants of her lunch. She stared down at the apple in her palm. It wasn’t an apple you would set on a teacher’s desk. It wasn’t bright red or shiny. It wasn’t perfectly shaped with a small green leaf dangling from its stem. It didn’t even have a stem. It was misshapen and dented. Its reds were mottled with pinks and even greens and marred here and there by soft purple mushy spots from the tumble it had taken across the cafeteria floor. This wasn’t an apple her mother would slice up and set on her perfect counter top to serve with peanut butter as the perfect snack to end a perfect day. This apple was a mess. And Clarke shoved the packet of Goldfish into her jacket pocket. But she let the apple linger in her hand because it felt all right there. 

And when the only noise left ringing through the classroom was the quiet shuffling of Ms Indra stacking papers on her desk, Clarke finally lifted her head and slung her bag over her shoulder and turned towards the door, only to find two sea green eyes watching her. Clarke’s breath caught in her lungs in surprise as she surveyed the girl in front of her. There was a hole in her jeans over the kneecap and a hole in her sneaker over the big toe and a hole in the plastic bag clutched in her fist where the corner of her science textbook had pierced its way through the W in SAFEWAY.

Clarke thought of the way she had yelled at this girl yesterday and how her words had stolen the pretty smile from her face and the pretty sunlight from her eyes. And she looked into those eyes now, and again she thought of the ocean and she waited for the waves to slap her in the face. But the slap didn’t come. Because the girl who had smiled at her on the playground as Clarke had only glared, and the girl who had walked slowly by her desk nine times this morning as Clarke had only kept her head down, and the girl who had smiled on the tenth time when Clarke had finally met her eyes and had only glared again, and the girl who had smiled from across the cafeteria as Clarke had only turned and sped away from her... The girl whom Clarke had only yelled at and glared at and avoided and tried to push away... That girl was smiling at her again.

And Clarke wanted to say, “I’m sorry.” And Clarke wanted to say, “Thank you.” And Clarke wanted to just smile back at her and not say anything at all. But Clarke just squeezed the apple tighter in her fist until a sticky wetness oozed from the mushy spots. And she pulled her eyes from the waves before they could crush her. And she pushed her way past the girl with the smile and straight out the door. 

***...*** 

Clarke held her breath as she entered the house that was not her home and she waited to hear the cheerful voice that made her skin crawl. But the sickly sweet greeting never came and the the day-old cookies on the counter were cold and crusty and crumbly. And she popped one into her mouth because they were so much better that way.

Clarke found her mother snoozing on the couch and she knew that it must have been a rough night in the ER. She considered the woman lying before her. She wasn’t wearing the awful smile that churned Clarke’s stomach and made her want to curl her lips back rather than upwards. She wasn’t wearing a flowery, cheerful apron to hide the mess simmering just below the surface. Her mouth was hanging open slightly so that she sucked the air in between her teeth and let each breath out in little puffs that pooched her lips. And she looked small, almost fragile. Clarke pulled the thin fleece draped over her lap up to her shoulders. And she gave her mother a weak, but genuine smile, because she was so much better this way.

Clarke entered the bedroom that still felt like someone else’s and she plopped her backpack onto the hideous rainbow rug and flopped down onto the bed. And she stared at the walls surrounding her in the obnoxious pink of Pepto Bismol. Her eyes traced the wallpaper with the painfully white unicorns prancing through green grass and blue sky and more rainbows. And Clarke half expected some little girl to pop into the doorway any second to glare at her with no front teeth and ribbons in her ponytails and her hands on her hips as she demanded that Clarke get out of her room immediately.

And Clarke could not stand it any longer. So she pushed herself off the bed and she dug her fingernails along the edges of the wallpaper. And she tore, and she tore, and she tore at it, until it left ugly white strips in the pink. And she let the torn bits of paper fall and gather around her toes like snow. And she worked her way around the room furiously until the skin beneath her fingernails was as raw as the nerves beneath her skin. Then she rolled the obscenely colorful rug up and dragged it through the door and unceremoniously dumped it in the middle of the hallway before clambering over it and tromping downstairs to give her mother a sharp shake.

“Mom... I want to paint my room.” She announced as her mother jolted awake.

“What?” Abby replied groggily, her glazed eyes swiveling back and forth slightly before focusing on Clarke’s.

“I want to paint my room. Take me to Home Depot?”

“Right now?”

“Yes... Please?”

“Can’t it wait until the weekend, Honey?”

“No. I want to go now. Please?” Clarke pleaded because she could not stomach spending another night in a stranger’s room. She could not stomach another night in the pink.

And even if her mother could not understand the reason behind it, it seemed she picked up on the desperation in Clarke’s voice. She glanced at her watch.

“OK, Hun.” She sighed. “But I only have two hours before I have to leave for the hospital, so we’d better make it quick.”

“I’m ready when you are.” Clarke grinned.

***...*** 

“You can’t paint your room black, Honey.”

“Why not?” Clarke protested.

“Because... You just can’t. How about this one?” Abby suggested, holding out a bright reddish-pink square labeled ‘Watermelon,’ along the top.

“The room’s ALREADY pink, Mom.” Clarke replied. “I don’t want ANOTHER shade of pink. Not ‘Watermelon,’ or ‘Cotton Candy,’ or ‘Bubblegum...’”

“Nothing sweet or edible.” Her mother cut her off with a small chuckle. “Got it.”

Clarke flipped through the paint squares until she found the darkest shade of blue: ‘Night Sky.’

“I said, ‘No black.’” Her mother frowned.

“It’s blue.” Clarke argued.

“How about this one? This one’s cheerful.” Abby suggested, holding up a soft yellow square. “Oh wait... ‘Lemon Drop...’ That’s sweet and edible isn’t it?”

But Clarke wasn’t listening because she had flipped through the paint squares and her fingers had frozen as one square caught her eyes and held them as tightly as her lungs held her breath. And it wasn’t the color of midnight. And it wasn’t sweet or edible.

“That’s pretty.” Her mother commented. “Hmmm.... ‘Seafoam.’”

And Clarke stared at the color that made her think of waves and sunshine moving through the shallows, and she knew that just like ‘seafoam,’ ‘pretty’ was not a strong enough word.

***...*** 

It was a Thursday night and Clarke had a test tomorrow and she reasoned that she should probably be studying. But she already knew everything there was to know about the Solar System. For years she had begged her father to read to her each night. And it wasn’t the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales or Dr. Seuss, or Encyclopedia Brown that she requested, but rather the huge hard-covered books filled with gigantic scientific words and even bigger pictures of space captured by the Hubble Telescope... Pictures of planets and stars and comets and galaxies and everything colorful that glowed or shimmered or burned against the black. 

Her father had patiently read to her about the mineral composition of Mars’ crust, and the ratios of hydrogen to helium to oxygen in Mercury’s atmosphere, and the diameters of each of Saturn’s rings. And Clarke always knew it bored her father to death. But he had always pretended to love space. Because SHE loved space... And HE loved HER.

And so, instead of studying, Clarke found herself laying down sheets of plastic over the white-gray carpet and pressing strips of dark blue painter’s tape along the edges where floor met wall and wall met ceiling. And she painted and she painted and she painted.

And, with her mother in the hospital and her father in the ground, there was no one there to tell her to put down the roller and roll herself into bed. So she painted and painted and painted until she couldn’t see the pink anymore. She painted and painted and painted until she felt like she was standing in the middle of the tumbling waves, watching the sunshine move through their shallow parts. 

And it was two o’clock in the morning when she finally set the roller down and opened her closet to rummage through the unpacked boxes with CLARKE’S BR scribbled across them in sharpie. She dug and dug through them until she found the plastic stars stuck together in a messy, pointy heap with bits of putty still stuck to their backings. And it was two-thirty by the time she pressed the last tiny star to the ceiling above her and hopped down from her chair, letting her arms drop so the blood could flow back into her fingertips. And she finally flopped down onto her bed and stared at the stars on her ceiling and the ocean on her walls and, despite the stench of the paint, she finally felt like this room was a place where she could breathe.

Clarke stared into the green and she thought of the eyes with the light in them. She thought of the lips that still pulled bravely upwards even though their smile was never returned. And she thought of the bruised mess of an apple she’d found sitting in the shelter of her desk. She thought of the thin plastic bag clutched in the girl’s fist, threatening to split open at any second. And suddenly Clarke was on her knees again, rummaging through the boxes in her closet until she felt her fingers wrap around its strap.

The light-blue backpack was faded and scuffed white and stained grayish-black here and there like a weak afternoon sky with a storm brewing in it. But it was Columbia made and it was built tough and in complete working order. Clarke unzipped each of its pockets, remembering how she had picked this bag out last year precisely because it had so many secret pouches tucked away in its cavernous compartments. She upturned the bag and gave it a good shaking, letting the bits of melted crayons and pencil shavings, paper clips and pennies, gnarled staples and crumpled strips of paper, all scatter to the ground around her. And she didn’t bother to clean up the mess. 

And Clarke set the empty backpack beside her own. And she scrubbed the green from her hands and the grit from her teeth and the grime from her face. And it was three o’clock when she finally flicked off the light and flopped onto her bed. And she stared at the stars glowing in the shadows above her. And though she knew she was in a different room, in a different house, in a different city, in a different state, for one minute she almost felt like she was home.

***...***

Clarke’s groan could not compete with the blaring of her alarm clock bellowing at her from the far side of the room where she purposefully kept it so that she would HAVE to get out of bed in order to silence the obnoxious sound. Clarke’s brain hurt and her eyes hurt and her arms and back hurt from all the painting, and it was all she could do to roll herself free of the warm clutches of her comforter and stumble across the chilly room to slam her palm against the shrieking piece of plastic. Her burning eyes struggled to focus on the flashing red numbers. 6:01. It was early... So early. But she had to be early today. She had to be the first one there. 

So she threw her clothes on as quickly as she could, shoved a cold, wildberry poptart between her teeth, snagged her lunch from the refrigerator door, slung her heavy backpack over her shoulders, crammed the empty blue backpack under her arm, and stepped into the chilly fog of morning. And she walked so quickly that, despite the chill, she was sweating beneath her jacket by the time she hurried through the gates of Hundred Pines Elementary. Because she had to be early today. She had to be the first one there. 

And Clarke marched into the empty classroom and unballed the empty backpack still crammed between her elbow and her ribs. And she shook it hard to smooth the wrinkles, then gently wedged it into the depths of Lexa’s desk. Then she flopped down at her own desk and rested her forehead in her palms and breathed easily for the first time since her eyes had focused on the stupid, blinking red numbers of her stupid alarm clock. 

***...*** 

Clarke ripped off another chunk of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, pulled it from the ziploc bag concealed in the folds of her jacket, and ducked her head as she shoved it quickly into her mouth. The library was as empty and quiet as it had been during recess, but she was being cautious all the same. Because she had passed at least three “No Eating or Drinking” signs on her way to the table in the corner where she now sat, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban while defying the signs. 

“Happiness can be found...” Clarke jumped in her seat at the gruff voice of a grown man. She looked up in terror to see the librarian with wavy dark hair and dark eyes and a dark beard as gruff as his voice. And she swallowed her half-chewed chunk of sandwich down, trying not to choke on the evidence of her rule-breaking as the man plunked down in the chair beside her. 

“Even in the darkest of times...” The man continued as Clarke caught her breath. “If one only remembers to turn on the light.”

“What?” Clarke stuttered, completely confused.

“It’s my favorite Dumbledore quote.” The man smiled. 

Of course Clarke had recognized the quote as Dumbledore’s. She had read and reread the whole Harry Potter series so many times she had entire sections of the books practically memorized. But she was still confused. Because she had expected a scolding. She had expected this man to send her and her peanut butter and jelly sandwich packing. She had expected him to ban her from ever entering the library again. She had not expected him to quote the ‘greatest wizard of all time.’

Clarke just stared at the man, still confused, still waiting for him to reprimand her. The man nodded his head towards the book in her hands. 

“I read all seven to my daughter.” He said, still smiling. “I pretended I was reading them for her sake. But more often than not, I was the one who insisted on pulling it out every night and SHE was the one who had to remind me it was time to go to sleep.” He chuckled. “Have you read them all?”

Clarke just nodded nervously in reply, feeling as if the peanut butter was still lodged in the back of her throat. 

“Do YOU have a favorite quote?” The man asked.

Clarke had memorized tons of Harry Potter quotes. But ever since March 3rd there was only one that kept popping into her head. And she wasn’t sure if she liked it or not. And she wasn’t sure if she believed it or not. But it popped into her head now, sudden and unbidden, just as it had done so often in the past months: ‘The ones that love us never really leave us...’ Sirius Black’s words rang through her mind, but Clarke kept them there. And she kept her mouth shut as she shook her head at the librarian.

“I suppose there are a lot to choose from. Makes it hard to pick, doesn’t it?” He said. “By the way, I’m Mr. Kane.”

Mr. Kane stared at Clarke one long moment before he chuckled again. “Do YOU have a name?”

“Clarke.” Clarke mumbled.

“Well, Clarke...” Mr. Kane started, growing serious. “I have a proposition for you.”

He reached into the folds of his jacket as Clarke just watched him with wide eyes and increasing amounts of confusion. The man’s hand reemerged clutching a bag of Doritos.

“I’ll trade you these here, Doritos...” He offered with a thick, dark eyebrow raised. “In exchange for your pudding cup.” He finished, nodding towards the tapioca cup sitting exposed in the wide open pouch of her backpack. 

Clarke pulled the pudding from her sack and set it down before the smiling librarian, still confused as to why she was not receiving the scolding she deserved. She had been caught red-handed, in clear violation of not one or two, but three warning signs.

The man tucked the Doritos into her backpack with a wink. Then he put on a high, airy voice. “I think I’ll just go down and have some pudding and wait for it all to turn up...”

“It always does in the end.” Clarke finished for him, finally finding her voice.

Mr Kane’s kind smile widened into a certified grin. “Nothing like a word of wisdom from Luna Lovegood to brighten the day, eh?” He laughed, before rising from his seat. “You know... Besides Raven Reyes and whichever friend she drags along with her, I don’t get a whole lot of visitors in here. Not exactly a lot of Hermiones in this school. It’s fun to have someone to talk to.” And just like that, he flashed her one last smile and walked away.

And it wasn’t until he had rounded the giant bookshelf and disappeared from her view that Clarke realized her tapioca pudding cup was still resting, untouched, beside her elbow. 

***...*** 

“Who can tell me the difference between a simile and a metaphor?” Ms. Indra asked. “Anyone... Anyone?” She let out a long sigh. “OK, Raven...”

Clarke didn’t bother to listen to the answer. The minute-hand on the clock was holding vigil with the 11 again, but this afternoon she wasn’t staring at it. Nor was she staring down at the English grammar textbook lying open on her desk. She was staring past her book to the piece of paper concealed half in her desk and half in her lap. It was the third or fourth time she had pulled the paper out of the shadows of her desk since she had discovered it hiding there after returning from her lunch in the library. And she had pretty much memorized the drawing already. But that didn’t stop her from staring at it again.

It was just a piece of crinkly, lined notebook paper covered in a thick layer of crayon. But the drawing was clearly the work of an artist. Clarke’s eyes followed the winding line dividing the sand and the water, tracing over the words “Thank You” scribbled on the page as if someone had dug them into the sand with their fingers. Her eyes then climbed the curve of the palm tree’s trunk and jumped from the tip of one of its fronds to the straight line separating blue water and blue sky. They flitted from one fluffy white-silver cloud to the next and followed the edge of the diving gull’s wings. Then, at last, she allowed them to flick back to the green-blue crest of the wave, where her gaze always seemed to want to linger. 

The sharp ringing of the school bell made Clarke jump in her seat. And she hastily folded the drawing back up and tucked it into her grammar book before quickly shoving everything into her backpack. She knew that if she waited for everyone to leave, she would find herself staring into those green eyes again... The eyes that belonged to the girl with the smile... The eyes that belonged to an artist... The eyes that held both sun and sea in them. And Clarke hurried to jump into the mass of kids shoving their way through the door, because she was not yet ready to jump into the waves.


	6. Mt. Labor

Chapter 6  
Mt. Labor  
OR  
Smiling Like an Idiot on the Summit of Nutcracker Hill  
AND  
Some Things Make You Even Stupider Than Anger (At Least According to Master Anya’s Heel) 

 

LEXA

“Someone wake Octavia up.” Anya instructs with an eyeroll and a small, amused smile as she puts the Subaru into park and steps out into the chilly morning.

“Wakey, wakey, Octavia.” Lincoln coos as he gives her a sharp tug on her ponytail. Octavia’s head yanks back and her eyes shoot open. 

“Hey!” She glares at Lincoln and punches him hard in his scrawny arm. “What the heck, man? That hurt.” She says, massaging the back of her neck.

“Master Anya said to get you up.” Lincoln laughs, rubbing at his arm. “Now get out already... My butt’s going numb.” He complains, reaching past her to try and open the car door. He’s crammed between me and Octavia in the backseat. He could just as easily hassle me. But Lincoln always chooses to hassle Octavia. And I only smile at the pair of them, fighting and teasing and bickering... Always bickering... because it’s SO obvious why. 

“That’s too bad.” Octavia snarls at him. “I want you to feel it when I kick your butt today.”

“Kick MY butt?” Lincoln laughs. “I ALWAYS beat YOUR butt up the mountain, Octavia.”

“Not today.” Octavia promises. “Today I’m gonna kick your butt so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

“How’s that?” Lincoln teases. “You eat your Wheaties this morning? You know you could eat your Wheaties for breakfast, lunch AND dinner everyday. You’ll still never be able to compete with my speed or my stamina or my strength.” He says, pausing to flex his non-existent biceps. “Or my good looks.” He finishes with a cocky smirk. 

“Good looks?” Octavia says with her eyebrows raised and pulled together in mock confusion. “What good looks?”

“I think he means his gorgeous hair.” I chime in, laughing as I run my palm against Lincoln’s buzz cut. It’s so recent that the top of his head isn’t even fuzzy yet. It still feels like sandpaper. Lincoln swats my hand away. 

“Would you idiots just get out of the car, already?” Bellamy says, leaning his hands against the car roof and poking his head through the passenger door. “Before Master Anya beats ALL of our butts?”

We tumble out of the backseat and I take a deep breath of the crisp morning air, shaking my legs out, already feeling the rush of nervous excitement running through my muscles. Octavia doesn’t even try to stifle her ridiculously big yawn until Lincoln shoves a finger into her open trap to poke her tongue. She has her eyes closed and he pulls his finger back out before she can clamp her jaws together. 

“Ewww... Lincoln!” Octavia whines, spitting onto the pavement by Lincoln’s feet as he doubles over laughing. “Gross.”

“Let’s get a move on, Guys!” Anya calls to us from the edge of the lot, where pavement gives way to mud and bark chips, slick stones and fallen leaves. “Two laps around the reservoirs and then meet up at the stairs!” She instructs us as if we haven’t done this horrible run every Saturday morning for the past two months; as if every muscle in our bodies isn’t intimately familiar with this awful, awful place. 

Bellamy lets out a groan and starts jogging towards the trail where Anya is already disappearing into the shadows of the pines. Octavia gives Lincoln a hard shove and starts after her brother before Lincoln has a chance to catch her. I take one more deep breath, give my legs one last shake, and follow them into the trees. 

It’s only six-thirty in the morning and the white-gray misty fog is still thick around us. But the sky behind it is a light blue, and the pretty combination of blue and white and gray makes me think of the backpack I’d found crammed in my desk yesterday morning. And I think of all of its hidden pockets and pouches I discovered inside. And I think of the CG I’d found scribbled in permanent marker across the backing of one strap. And I’m smiling as my feet pound lightly down the trail, dodging stones and jumping jagged tree roots. 

My muscles feel good. Really good. I feel light and limber and bouncy. The cold air makes my lungs burn and scratches at the insides of my throat with every breath. But the air is fresh and pure and I can practically feel the oxygen sinking through my lungs and pumping into my blood and into every muscle. And it’s not long before I’m weaving between Octavia and Lincoln, who frown at me in confusion as I pass. They jog nearly side-by-side, but I know it’s not because they want friendly company. They are pacing each other like race horses, waiting for the final lap when each of them will frantically try to out-sprint the other to the finish line.

I break free from the trees and back onto concrete, rounding the first bend of the giant reservoirs. The water inside of them is a deep, crystal blue. It is nearly the same blue as Clarke’s eyes, and now I’m thinking of the blaze in those eyes and I hardly notice Bellamy as I pass by him. My feet are navigating the steep, rocky trail leading down to the second reservoir. My lungs are sucking in cold, forest air. But my mind is not here, on Mt. Tabor. It’s back in Ms Indra’s classroom, watching Clarke’s eyes study the drawing concealed in her lap. And MY eyes are studying HER, memorizing the way her lips tilt up at the edges in the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile on her pretty face since the moment she first glared at me from behind Ontari’s back.

“Lexa?” Anya greets me as I fall into step with her. 

She is just slightly out of breath, her cheeks rosy from the jogging and the cold. Her brown eyes are slightly narrowed with confusion. She’s clearly surprised to see me. And I can’t blame her. Usually I’m the last one to finish the warm-up run, pulling up the rear of the group, clutching at my side and practically wheezing. But I feel good today. Real good. So good that I lengthen my stride a little further and push past Anya.

The sun is already starting to burn away the wispy fog as I start my second lap around the reservoirs. And, despite the chill in the air, I know that today will be one of those rare, perfect October days where the sky is bright and the wind is crisp and the leaves glow red and orange in the sunlight. It will be one of those days that has the magical power to pull teenage boys from their X-Boxes and out onto the grass to toss footballs and shove each other around in the mud. It will be one of those afternoons where families turn off their TVs, pile into their SUVs, and head down to the pumpkin patch for lazy hay-rides and winding corn mazes and the quest to find the perfect pumpkin for the perfect jack-o-lantern. It is one of those days when the sky will be as bright and blue as the eyes that keep popping into my head.

Before I know it, I’ve rounded the last stretch of the glistening reservoir and I’m at the base of the monstrosity of a staircase that I think might just be Anya’s favorite place in the world. It’s cut directly into the hill between the upper and lower reservoirs, and to say that it wasn’t built to code would be an understatement. It’s ninety-six stairs with no breaks between them (I know this because I’ve counted, more than once) and the staircase curves with the hillside so that it gets steeper and steeper the closer you get to the top, like the curving line in the graphs of exponential functions we’re studying in math class. f(x) = ax = enough lactic acid to bring tears to your eyes. I swear by the end of it, it practically feels like your wobbly legs are climbing up a ladder leading to infinity. These stairs were designed by some sadist, purposefully made to give kids like me a severe case of the jelly-legs. 

For once, I am the first one here. And I catch my breath and stare into the blue of the sky. And I am smiling as I wait for the others. 

***...*** 

“Alright, Guys...” Anya calls, standing over me with her hands on her hips so that her body eclipses the sun and her shadow falls over me and I’m forced to pull my eyes from the blue of the sky to the brown of her own eyes. “Pair up for stepping. Light contact... Good control.”

“Ma’am?” Bellamy asks from beside me where he’s sitting propped against the thick trunk of a pine with his legs sprawled out in the grass. 

“I’m sorry...” Anya replies sarcastically. “Was I speaking in Korean without realizing it again? What I meant to say was, ‘pair... up... for... Stepping.’” She drags the words out, overly annunciating each syllable as if speaking to a bunch of old folks with squeaking hearing aids. 

“Why is Master Anya trying to kill us?” Octavia whispers as she flops from her side to her belly, slowly, painfully, pushing herself from cobra to downward dog and inching her feet and hands together before finally lifting herself into a full standing position. She moves like an eighty-year-old woman and I’m tempted to laugh at her, but I’m still on my butt and I doubt I can do any better. Octavia turns her glare to Lincoln. “What did you do, Lincoln?”

“Don’t look at ME... I didn’t do anything!” Lincoln protests, helping Bellamy pull himself off the ground.

“Well, SOMEBODY must have pissed her off.” Octavia says, offering a hand to me. I push myself onto my elbows, crab walk closer to her, and accept the hand. My legs are absolutely shot, wobbly, and weak. My quads quiver as if Winter has come early just so she can attack the strip of skin running between my kneecaps and my hips.

Anya had us do five stairs this morning, instead of the usual three. And she barely gave us enough time to suck down some water between the stairs and the long uphill jog to Anya’s second favorite place in this world: the slope Bellamy christened ‘Nutcracker Hill,’ because it’s such a ‘ball buster.’ And, like with the stairs, we did five sprints up the ridiculously steep hill rather than the usual three. And we collapsed onto the grass afterwards because usually Nutcracker Hill is the grand finale of our Mt. Tabor (or ‘Mt. Labor’ as Bellamy calls it) workout. And we’ve only been laying here for thirty seconds and it seems Anya is still not satisfied. Maybe Octavia’s right... Maybe Anya IS trying to kill us. Maybe someone DID piss her off. My bet’s on Bellamy.

I pair up with Octavia and we’re both so exhausted all we do is hop around. I tell my legs to kick, but apparently the transmission gets lost in my spinal cord somewhere and apparently Octavia’s spine isn’t working properly either. And I find myself staring into the blue space above her as we hop lazily towards and away from each other. 

“Get your hands up, Lexa!” Anya commands and I startle in surprise at her voice right beside me. “Move your feet. And for crying out loud... Keep your eyes on your opponent!”

“Octavia, take a break.” Anya says, pushing a confused but relieved Octavia aside and taking her position across from me. And now I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t BELLAMY who’s upset her. And I’m wracking my brains because I can’t think of what I’ve done wrong. I was the first to finish the warm-up run. I was the first up Nutcracker Hill. I’ve run faster and harder today than ever before. Why does she seem so frustrated with me?

Anya isn’t playing with me like last time. This time, SHE’S the one on the attack, and I’M the one on the defense. Only, I’m not dodging her kicks... I’m getting hit by every single one. 

“Keep your hands up!” Anya repeats as her instep lightly brushes against my ear. “Stay on your toes.” She adds as she moves quickly in and out of my space before my heavy legs can respond. “Light on your feet.”

“I’m tired.” I mumble before I can stop my stupid tongue. 

“You don’t think you’ll be tired at States?” Anya replies, now dragging her toes along my other ear. “You planning on hopping your way through round three of finals?”

I force my legs to kick, but they’re too heavy and too slow to catch Anya. Anya ran every step of every stair and hill with us this morning. But I’ve never seen Anya tired. I’ve never seen her slow. I’ve never seen her weak. Anya spins, and before I can slide back, before I can throw my hands up, her muddy heel is dragging across my lips again and I’m spitting pine needles and bark chips off the tip of my tongue. 

“Drop your hands at States...” Anya warns, moving out of her fighting stance and I realize the torture is ending. “And the Head Hunters will make you regret it. Honestly... I don’t know where your head is today.” She mumbles, walking away and leaving me as confused as I am exhausted.

“Alright, everyone...” She calls out and I’m terrified she’s going to say something like ‘fifty burpees’ next. But she mercifully says, “Good work today. Ten minutes to stretch out and then let’s head back.”

And just like that we all collapse back onto the grass. Every part of me is shaky and weak and exhausted. But I smile up at the blazing blue above me, because I still feel good. Real good.

***...*** 

“Thank you, Master Anya.” Lincoln says as he steps from the car to the curb. 

“You’re welcome, Lincoln. See you Monday... And, hey...” She adds, before he can shut the door. “Don’t forget... PROTEIN for lunch. Not just potato chips and candy, you hear? Good, lean protein like we talked about, alright?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Lincoln mumbles, closing the door and leaving me alone with Master Anya.

“That boy is still far too skinny.” Anya shakes her head with a laugh. Pretty soon I’m going to have to start pureeing chicken breasts and steaks and fish to add to his protein shakes, because they don’t seem to be working on their own. I’ll force-feed him if I have to.” She adds. But I’m only half listening now because I am thinking about a chicken-fried-steak smeared across linoleum. And I’m thinking about Goldfish crumbling in my hand.

Anya turns us onto the main road and lowers the volume on the radio. “So... Tell me, Kiddo...” She begins, pulling my attention back to the present. She takes her eyes off the road to shoot me a playful look. “What’s his name?”

“What?” I ask, completely confused. Is she still talking about Lincoln? Or did she start talking about some other boy when I wasn’t listening?

“What’s his name?” She repeats.

“Ma’am?” I have no idea who she’s referring to or why her smile is half-cocked and her eyebrows are raised in that way that silently says, “You know what I’m talking about... Quit playing dumb and fess up.” But I’m not playing. I really am dumb.

“The boy who’s been on your mind all morning, Lexa.” She chuckles as I just frown at her in confusion.

“Mt. Tabor is designed to break you guys.” Anya says in a tone like she’s explaining something. But I’m only growing more and more confused by the second. “To break you so that I can build you back up stronger than you were before. It’s SUPPOSED to hurt. You’re SUPPOSED to grimace and cry your way through it. But you smiled through the whole work-out today... Smiled like an idiot. And I’ll admit... I’m impressed with how well you ran today.” She pauses to smile. “But you know how I told you anger makes you stupid in the ring? Well... Some things make you even more stupid than anger. I don’t care how cute he is... You have to learn how to focus when you step into the ring, Lexa. Leave the anger out of the ring. Leave the boys out too.”

“I wasn’t thinking about a boy.” I blurt out, and I don’t know if I should laugh or cover my burning face. And I’m still SO confused by this entire conversation.

“Right...” Anya says, her brows still raised. She clearly doesn’t believe me.

“Really.” I insist, my voice growing a bit more defensive than I had planned. “I wasn’t thinking about a boy.”

Now Anya looks genuinely confused too. “If it’s not a boy... Then what the heck are you so happy about, Kid?”

I think of the blue backpack and the bluer eyes. “I just... I think I made a new friend yesterday.”

Anya casts me a curious sideways look. “Is that so? Who?”

“The new girl.” Is all I say.

We pause at a red light and Anya turns in her seat to look at me properly. I feel like she’s assessing me and I don’t know why I’m suddenly so uncomfortable under her piercing gaze. She has a strange look on her face like she’s trying to figure me out, like she’s seeing something new in me that she never noticed was there before. And she finally smiles at me like she knows something I don’t.

“She must be quite a friend.” She says with a small chuckle, turning her eyes back to the road as the light flashes to green. “What should we get for lunch, kid? I’m starving. I might just have to order TWO meals today.”


	7. Three Perfect Scores, Two Words Left Unsaid, and One Extra Backpack

Chapter 7  
Three Perfect Scores, Two Words Left Unsaid, and One Extra Backpack  
OR  
The Worst Day of Lexa’s Whole Stupid School Year  
  
LEXA

“I don’t get it!” I huff under my breath at Raven as the class settles down and the morning bell rings. “If she hates me so much, why did she give it to me?”

I’m still sweating from having to run all the way here and I’m in a terrible, awful mood. Mom was a mess again this morning and by the time I got her into bed and got myself out the door, it was too late. The bus was pulling away just as I got to the stop and Mr. Jaha is such a stickler for rules and schedules that he waits for no one. Doesn’t matter if you chase after the bus, waving your arms desperately and hollering, he will pretend he does not see you and will leave you gasping in a cloud of exhaust and humiliation.

And it’s only been a week since I promised Ms. Indra I’d never be late again, so I had put my head down and run the whole four miles here, thinking I should be exempt from Mt. Tabor this week. And, at the time, I was grateful for the sturdy backpack on my shoulders, because there is no way Sailor Moon would have survived the run, let alone my grocery bags. And now that I am here, my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my armpits and lower back, my lungs burning, and my feet aching, I am angry. 

I didn’t have any breakfast and I’m hungry from my run. And lunch is four, long, painful hours away. And to top everything off, today is probably my least favorite day of the entire stupid school year. And I’m angry, angry, angry. And the sight of the light blue backpack beside me is only making me angrier.

“Maybe it wasn’t her.” Raven shrugs. “I mean... How do you know for sure it was her?”

I point impatiently at the CG scribbled on the strap of the backpack. “I’m no detective...” I say sarcastically. “But I’m pretty sure it was her.”

“CG...” Raven mumbles, thinking. “It could have been Curtis... Curtis Gilbert.”

“Curtis? Why the heck would CURTIS give it to me?”

“Maybe he’s got a crush on you.” Raven teases. 

I glance at Curtis sitting two rows over, picking at a scab on his pimply face with one hand and scratching at his scalp with the other. His dark hair is shiny with grease and the poor boy’s unfortunate eyebrows are so thick it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. 

“God, I hope not.” I mutter. But I know it wasn’t Curtis. I’m sure the backpack was from Clarke. I’m sure, sure, sure of it.

And I just don’t understand. Because tucking the bag into my desk was one of the most thoughtful, kind things anyone has ever done for me. The backpack is old and clearly used, but it’s still one of the best gifts I have ever received. And I’m so confused because I found it in my desk on Friday. And today is Wednesday. And the girl with the blazing, blue eyes STILL hasn’t said a single word to me. And she’s STILL clearly avoiding me. And no matter how many times I shuffle by her desk, she STILL won’t even look at me. And if she accidentally happens to meet my eyes at some point, all she ever does is glare. 

And I don’t understand. I don’t understand why she hates me. I don’t understand why she gave me the backpack. And I don’t understand why I’m so bothered by all of it. And I don’t understand ANY of it. And I don’t understand HER.

“Settle down, class.” Ms Indra commands and silence falls almost immediately. She has trained us well. “As you all know... This morning is Bring Your Father to School Day! And, on behalf of Hundred Pines Elementary, I’d like to offer a warm welcome to all of the fathers who took the time to come spend the morning with us...”

I slink down in my chair and stop listening to Ms Indra. And I’m in a terrible, awful mood. And I’m fighting back the tears now because I’ve had a terrible morning and it’s the worst day of the whole stupid year.

I know I’m not the only kid here without a father sitting politely beside me hiding his boredom behind a fake smile. I know Raven is alone too, because her father slammed the front door of her house shut six years ago and drove off into the night and never came back. I know Bellamy and Octavia don’t even know who their father is because their mother got knocked up in college and the frightened boy had split as soon as the nurse had uttered the word, ‘twins.’

Yes, I know that I’m not the only one who’s alone today. But that knowledge does nothing to ease the ache in me. And it does nothing to soothe the anger roiling within me either. Because I’m angry at Raven’s father for leaving. And I’m angry at Octavia’s father for leaving. And I’m angry, so angry, that my own father is not here. And I’m angry that there is no one I can blame for that. And I’m just... I’m just... Angry.

And I’m angry at the girl with the blazing, blue eyes. And it doesn’t help at all... Not even a little bit... That I notice that she is slumped in her chair just like me. And she is all alone today too.

***...*** 

I follow her silently, watching as she heads in the direction AWAY from the cafeteria and slips instead into the school library. As she enters, Mr. Kane waves at her as if they are old, family friends. 

“Why does it have to be SPIDERS?” He asks her through a grin. “Why couldn’t it be...”

I have no idea what Mr. Kane is talking about. But Clarke doesn’t miss a beat. “Follow the BUTTERFLIES?” She laughs.

And I realize that this is the first time I have ever heard her laugh. It is the first time I’ve ever seen her grin. And for one moment I completely forget why I am here. I forget that I am angry. I forget everything.

Clarke plunks a chocolate pudding snack onto Kane’s desk.

“Bless your heart.” Kane smiles, excitedly snagging the pudding snack and handing Clarke a bag of Funyuns.

“Fair trade.” Clarke says, and my breath catches inside me as she smiles again before she turns around a shelf, heading for the far corner of the library. 

“Lexa?” Mr. Kane blurts in surprise when he finally notices me. He scans the empty spaces beside me, cranes his neck to search behind me. “No Raven?”

“No. It’s just me, today.” I shrug. 

“You need help with something?” He asks. I can tell he is absolutely confused to see me here without Raven dragging me through the dusty shelves by the wrist. 

“No, thanks.” I mumble, pushing past him and moving in the direction in which Clarke had disappeared. 

I find her sitting at a table in the corner with her nose in a book and a Funyun in her fist. She’s surrounded by ziploc baggies overflowing with apple slices and Teddy Grahams, baby carrots and a ham and cheese sandwich. And she’s not even TRYING to hide any of it.

I stomp up to the table and rip the empty backpack from my shoulders, holding it out before me like a shield. 

“Why’d you do it?” I spit at her. 

The book droops in her hand and two wide, impossibly blue eyes appear from behind it. They are filled with utter confusion and utter surprise, and I think just a little bit of fear. 

“Why’d you do it?” I ask again, and my voice seems too loud and too harsh to be allowed in the silence of this library. But my throat is tight and my face is hot and I can’t lower my voice any more than I can keep my fingers from shaking. “If you hate me so much, why’d you give me this?”

“I don’t hate you.” Clarke’s voice is small like a bird’s again. The words are almost a whisper and I can barely make sense of them over the pounding of blood in my ears. “I thought you needed it.”

“I don’t need your help.” I hiss at her, my tone perfectly matching the voice I’ve replayed in my head a hundred times since she yelled at me on the playground. “I can provide for myself.”

And I throw the empty backpack onto the table, sending chocolate bears tumbling to the floor. And I think I see tears building in her blazing, blue eyes but I don’t stick around long enough to watch them fall. Because my own eyes are burning again. And I know if I stay here a minute longer, I won’t be able to choke them back this time. The tears will spill out of me and I won’t be able to stop them. And I don’t want to cry.

And I don’t want this girl to see me cry. 

 

***...*** 

The fathers disappear one by one during lunch. And I stab at my lumpy, greasy mac and cheese with a limp celery stick as I watch Ontari’s dad give her a tight hug, lifting her off the ground and kissing her on the cheek before gently setting her back down. And I’m not feeling any better about the world as I watch him go. 

I push the greasy, gooey clumps of noodles and cheese around my plate, then slowly squash one beneath the tip of the celery stick, watching the cheese sauce bubble and ooze out of it. 

“Are you actually gonna EAT your mac and cheese at some point, or what?” Octavia asks, eyeing my plate. 

I didn’t eat breakfast and I’ve been starving, starving, starving for hours. But my fingers are still shaking slightly and my throat is still as uncomfortably tight as the hollow space inside my chest. And there’s a terrible knot in my stomach like my intestines decided they should play Twister and somewhere along the way something went horribly, horribly wrong. And I know the celery stick in my fist is green. And the mushy noodles are a bright, artificial, yellow-orange. But I look down at my plate and all I see is the blue. And I’m not hungry anymore. Not even a little bit.

“No.” I say, shoving the plate away from me. “You want it?”

“Heck, yeah!” Octavia exclaims, fishing out the celery sticks and tossing them aside before dumping the cheesy mess of noodles onto her own orange mound.

“Where are you going?” Raven asks as I push myself up from the bench. “You just sat down...”

“I’m not hungry.” Is all I say, because I don’t have an answer to the question. And I still don’t have an answer as I push my way through the double doors and out into the rain.

 

***...*** 

 

“Three perfect scores.” Ms Indra announces, and the way the edges of her lips curl, it almost looks like she’s smiling. Almost. 

She weaves in and out of our desks, plopping the graded Solar System exams down in front of anguished faces. Jasper groans and plunks his forehead against his test with a hard ‘thud.’ Monty, apparently happy enough with his own scores, laughs at Jasper from beside him. Jasper raises his head to glare at him, but the paper sticks to his forehead and instead of his angry eyes I see a 57 scribbled on the test in angry, red ink.

“Raven, of course.” Ms Indra continues. And she almost chuckles. Almost. “As well as Lexa, and... Clarke. Good work you three. The rest of you...”

“The Geeks and the Freak!” Ontari’s snicker interrupts Ms Indra.

Ms Indra fixes Ontari with an icy glare. “Would you like me to share YOUR scores with the class as well, Ontari?” She asks as she plunks Ontari’s test onto her desk. I crane my neck to try to see her score, but Ontari hunches over the paper, blocking it from view. Still, from the glimpse I caught, there was more red on her paper than Jasper’s.

“I’m afraid that SOME of you...” Ms Indra says, her eyes not-so-subtly lingering on Ontari, then Jasper, Roan, and Curtis. “Are going to have to retake the exam. For those of you with marks less than a sixty-five, the retake will be held immediately after school on Friday. I strongly suggest you seriously consider actually opening your books sometime between now and then.”

The final bell rings as Ms Indra sets my exam on my desk. I look down at my perfect marks and I should be pleased. But I’m still just as upset with the world as I was when the first bell rang this morning. If possible, I might be in an even worse mood now. 

Ms Indra turned the 0’s in the 100% into the eyes of a smiley face and I can’t even bring myself to laugh at the irony of it as I shove the test into a book and add it to the pile of crap on my desk. And I stack my books like giant Jenga pieces, trying to find the best configuration... Trying to wedge my pencils and pens and erasers into the crevices between them, while frowning down at it all...Trying to figure out just how the heck I’m going to carry this whole mess home. 

 

***...***

 

“Let me see your test, Geek!” I hear Ontari’s ugly voice snarl as I finally waddle my way through the classroom door. 

“I said, ‘No.’” Clarke shouts back, her own snarl as ferocious as a wildcat’s again.

I round the corner to spot them on the blacktop, staring at each other like two cowboys in a shoot-off in some classic old Western. Already a small crowd is gathering around them. Of course, Ontari is flanked by her goons. Of course, Clarke stands alone. 

Anger is flooding my system again and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m angry with Ontari or with Clarke. Part of me desperately wants to go stand by the girl’s side. The other part of me wants to watch her ‘fight for herself.’

“Give it to me... Or I will TAKE it from you.” Ontari threatens.

“Yeah, Geek... Give it to her or we’ll take it from you.” Echo echoes.

“I said, ‘NO.” Clarke repeats, matching Ontari growl for growl.

“I warned you.” Ontari says, nodding at her goons. 

“Yeah... She warned you.” Echo says as she and Roan grab for the backpack wrapped around Clarke’s shoulders. When she resists, Roan gives her a sharp punch in the ribs. She doubles over and they rip the bag from her back and toss it to Ontari.

“Give it back.” Clarke wheezes, still not backing down.

Ontari partially unzips the main compartment and then yanks the front and back apart so violently that the backpack tears along the zipper’s seam. She upturns it and dumps all of its contents on the blacktop, then starts rifling through the mess. She picks random papers, glances at them, and when she realizes they aren’t the test with the answers she’s looking for, tears them and throws them aside. 

“Stop!” Clarke’s voice is so low and dangerous that Ontari pauses, clutching a colorful piece of paper in her hands. I see crayon blue and yellow and my breath catches in me as I realize that Ontari has my drawing in her hands. Clarke is standing over her, practically shaking with rage. Ontari rises from her crouch to meet Clarke’s glare. She holds the paper out before her and slowly tears it right down the middle, staring into Clarke’s blazing, blue eyes the whole time. And I see it in those fiery eyes... Something inside of Clarke snaps. 

Clarke balls her hands into fists, and almost like she’s moving in slow motion, I watch as she rears back to throw the punch. She cocks her arm over her shoulder the way they do in cheesy action movies, and I half expect her to start cranking it in circles before finally taking a swing. Her attack is so painfully obvious, I cringe as I watch her release the punch. A yellow-belt could have dodged that blow. And I know from experience that Ontari is much more than a yellow-belt.

Ontari blocks the punch almost lazily with her left arm, sidestepping the attack while moving forward into Clarke’s space. She drives the edge of her right elbow down across the ridge of Clarke’s eyebrow and the bridge of her nose and immediately, hot red blood explodes from Clarke’s nostrils. Clarke’s hands fly to her face, and I watch as the red seeps through the cracks between her fingers as Ontari just drops back into a crouch, finally finding the test she was looking for. 

She stands back up, gripping the paper in her fist. “I told you you should have just given it to me, Geek.” She laughs. And she turns to walk away, but Clarke reaches out a bloodied hand and grabs her by the shoulder.

“Give it back!” Clarke demands. The fire is still in her eyes, as bright as the blood on her face. She gives Ontari a shove, but instead of stumbling backwards, Ontari plants one muddy Converse All-Star across the front of Clarke’s light blue jacket. Clarke flies backwards from the sudden force of the push-kick and ends up on her butt on the hard pavement.

“Thanks for the help with my science test, Geek.” Ontari laughs, waving Clarke’s test in the air long enough for me to see Ms Indra’s smiley face in the 0s of the 100%.

“Yeah... Thanks, Geek.” Echo repeats as Ontari turns and walks away, guffawing like an idiot, her stooges following close behind. 

I watch Clarke wipe at the blood on her face with her sleeve as she crawls over to her pile of books and torn papers lying in a heap beside her ruined backpack. The small crowd of kids surrounding her loses interest and everyone wanders off, laughing and whispering together. No one offers to help Clarke as she shoves her belongings into her pack. I see her snag the torn pieces of my drawing and she tries to smooth their wrinkles against the edge of a textbook before carefully tucking them into its pages. Then she cradles her backpack against her muddy, bloody chest to keep it from falling apart, and maybe to keep herself from falling apart too. And she rises to her feet. And she finally sees me watching her, clutching my own mess of belongings against my own chest to keep myself from falling apart.

I look at the blood smeared on her face and the fire still burning in her eyes. And I think to myself, this girl IS a fighter. But she’s a fighter who does not know how to fight.

Like usual, she glares at me. And part of me wants to smile at her. Part of me wants to say something to comfort her. Part of me desperately wants to see her laugh again. Part of me wants to make her grin. 

But the other part of me is still angry and confused and hurt. And I don’t plan to speak, but my mouth opens anyways. And the voice that escapes me is bitter, bitter, bitter.

“Good thing you have an extra backpack.” Is all I say.

And I watch her just long enough to see the fire go out and the tears finally fall from her eyes as I turn and walk away.

***...*** 

The electricity is back on when I stomp my way through the door and finally dump my books and papers and pencils and all the pieces of me onto the living room floor. And I massage my tired arms and my tired forehead. There’s a fresh box of cornflakes sitting on the counter next to a jar of peanut butter. And I haven’t eaten all day. But my stomach is still churning with anger and sadness and guilt and confusion and so many emotions that I can’t figure out. And there’s no room left inside it for food. Not even peanut butter. 

And I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m restless again. And part of me wants to scream and shout and kick something. And part of me just wants to sit down and cry. And I end up just pacing the apartment, clenching and unclenching my fists, because I’m restless, restless, restless.

Then I furiously tear through the pile of my school things until I find the box of crayons. And I tear a sheet of paper from my binder. And I color in the blues and the yellows and the greens until it is a perfect match of my first drawing. And I scribble two words into the sand and I know it’s perfect, perfect, perfect.

Then I hold the piece of paper out before me and before I can stop myself, my hands have torn it right down the middle, right between the “I’m” and the “sorry.” And then I tear the two halves apart. And I tear and I tear and I tear, until the drawing is nothing but a heap of colorful shreds in my palms. And I let the pieces fall from my fingers, as finally, finally, finally, the tears fall from my eyes.


	8. Breaking Apart and Coming Together

Chapter 8  
Breaking Apart and Coming Together  
OR  
Cloudy with a Chance of Pancakes

 

CLARKE

 

Just like every other day, Clarke paused before the big wooden door and tried to breathe. She rested her head against the hard, unyielding surface, letting the cold rain seep through the cracks between her jacket and her skin, and deeper still through the cracks between her skin and her bones. 

Just like the sun, the rain here was all wrong. It didn’t come down in spectacular sheets with lightning and thunder chasing after it, like a celebrity strutting the red carpet to flashing cameras and the desperate calling of the Paparazzi. It didn’t flood the potholes and gutters so suddenly that even the adults were tempted to slap on their rubber boots and tromp through it. It wasn’t warm or wild enough for dancing in. 

The rain here was a pathetic, weak drizzle that neither came, nor went, with a bang. It just hovered in the air for hours and hours like the stench of fish down at the wharf where her dad used to take her fishing as a kid. And just like the fishermen at the market who never seemed bothered by the smell, the people here didn’t seem to notice the rain. No one here even bothered to carry an umbrella. They just put their hoods up and their heads down and let it fall, fall, fall on them. And the rain just drizzled and drizzled and drizzled continuously, slowly seeping its way inside of you like a nagging voice. And it was all wrong.

Just like every other day, Clarke took a final deep breath, trying to pull the corners of her lips into the fake smile she knew her mother was waiting for. But today was NOT just like every other day. Because today the bright red blood soaked into her sleeves and trailing down her chest was like a scarlet letter taped to her breast. And she doubted even the smile could hide the ugly truth smeared all over the mess of her.

Clarke pushed the door open and then pushed herself through it, nursing the hope that maybe... Just maybe... Her mother might be asleep on the sofa again.

“Clarke? Honey?” Her mother’s cheerful voice drifted down the hall. “You’re just in time! I felt bad about always missing you on the way out in the mornings, so I thought we could have pancakes for a snack this afternoon!” 

“Sorry, Mom.” Clarke put on her most simultaneously cheerful and apologetic voice as she hurried past the kitchen, clutching her ripped backpack to her chest to try to hide the crimson beneath it. “I’m not hungry. And I’ve got tons of homework...”

She didn’t pause long enough to watch the fake smile droop. She rushed up the stairs and into her room and she let her things cascade from her arms like water, puddling on the floor around her feet. And she threw herself onto the bed and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the ‘seafoam’ all around her. But even in the darkness behind her eyelids, Clarke still felt like she was drowning.

Barely a minute passed before there was a quick rap on her door and her mother appeared holding a plate stacked high with buttery pancakes and a tall glass of orange juice.

“I brought some up just in case you change your mind and get hungry while you’re studying.” She said through the awful, awful smile, crossing the room to sit beside Clarke. “Did you have a nice day at sch... Is that blood on your jacket?”

Clarke pushed herself up into a seated position and stared at the woman with the pancakes and the fake smile. She watched as the corners of her lips drooped in confusion. And she tried to pull her own lips up. And she opened her mouth to tell the story she had rehearsed in her head over and over again all the way home. She opened her mouth to tell her mother all about how the dodgeball had caught her off-guard in Gym, but that it was OK because her team had still won, and really it looked a lot worse than it felt. 

She opened her mouth... But the words that escaped her were not the words that she had rehearsed. And Clarke didn’t know what was happening, because suddenly she was yelling and the words were spewing from her lips like hot bile, spitting off her tongue like venom.

“No, Mom...” She shouted, as her mother shrunk back in surprise. “I DIDN’T have a nice day at school today. I had a horrible, terrible, awful, no good, very, very, BAD day! Just like every other stupid day I’ve had since we moved here! I HATE IT HERE!” 

Clarke felt her lips moving, but it seemed to her like this voice, harsh and loud and feral, belonged to someone else. And her tongue was forming the words completely independently of her brain. She felt like someone had unscrewed her battery casing and flicked a switch, except instead of Spanish Mode, she had been switched to Demon Mode.

“I hate EVERYTHING here!” She bellowed. “I hate my school... I hate the other kids in my class... I have NO friends... ZERO... And I hate this house, and this neighborhood and this city, and this whole state! I hate the cold! And I hate the rain! And I hate the sun! And I hate the trees and the squirrels and the bicyclists and the health-food stores...”

Clarke knew she was making no sense. She was rambling and she could see the complete panicked confusion in her mother’s eyes. But she could not stop. All of the thoughts she’d been holding back, and holding back, and holding back, were finally rushing out of her, tumbling one after another so rapidly that she couldn’t line them up first.

“And I hate frozen lasagna! And I hate your flowery apron and matching oven mitts!” Clarke knew she had crossed the line. She was so far across the border that the Police were still arguing about state jurisdiction and she was halfway to Mexico. And there was nothing stopping her now. So she completely ignored the voice in her head that warned her to turn back... To stop herself before she broke something she could never repair. And instead, Clarke gave in to every gloriously wild impulse inside of her.

And so Clarke leapt to her feet. And she reached out and plucked the plate of pancakes off of her bedside table. “And I hate your cookies! And I hate your pancakes!” She shouted. And she reared back her arm and flung the plate like a frisbee at the wall, so hard that it would have made Mr. Pike, her old gym teacher, actually proud of her for once. The plate exploded against the wall, shattering into pieces that fell to the floor like hail. One flat pancake slowly slid down the wall, leaving a fat, sticky streak of brown against the green. Aunt Jemima and melted I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter trickled down the seafoam and into the carpet.

Abby’s eyes were wide with shock and confusion and she was looking at Clarke as if she feared the girl. But Clarke was not finished yet.

“I hate EVERYTHING here!” She repeated. “But most of all, I HATE... I HATE, HATE, HATE your FUCKING fake smile.” It was the first time Clarke had ever uttered the word out loud. And it tasted all wrong on her tongue. And it felt all right as it passed over her lips. And her mother recoiled at the curse as if it had slapped her in the face. And Clarke wished she could take it back. And Clarke wanted to scream it at her again and again. 

“You pretend like everything is perfect and good and OK. And it’s NOT perfect. And it’s NOT good. And it’s NOT FUCKING OK. And I FUCKING HATE IT!” She screamed one last time before she suddenly realized she was out of words. And she just stared at her mother, looking small and fragile before her. And Clarke knew she had crossed the line. She knew there was no going back. And she wondered if she had broken something she could never repair... Because her mother wasn’t smiling anymore. And Clarke wasn’t even sorry she had wrecked her mother’s face. Because it was so much better this way.

Yes, Clarke had run out of words. And she didn’t know what to do with herself now. So she just glared at her mother and waited. And she didn’t know what she was waiting for. Maybe she was waiting for her mother to bellow poisonous words right back at her. Maybe she was waiting for a slap across the face. Maybe she was waiting for the mess of her mother to spill out in tears and brokenness. Maybe she was waiting for the fake smile to return. She didn’t know what was coming. She was just waiting... Waiting for the woman with the pancakes to do something... Waiting for HER MOTHER to do something.

But whatever Clarke had been expecting her mother to do, it was not at all what happened next. Abby pushed herself slowly off the bed and moved towards Clarke. And Clarke could not read the expression on her tired face as she suddenly wrapped her arms around Clarke. And Clarke was so surprised by the hug that she did not even try to pull away.

“I fucking hate WEARING the fake smile.” Abby said softly. And her voice wasn’t cheerful... Not even a little bit. And the words sounded all right in Clarke’s ear.

“I know everything isn’t perfect, or good, or even OK, Clarke.” Her mom sighed as she finally pulled out of the hug. “And to tell you the truth... I hate it here too... But... Everything will work out, Honey.” She promised, cradling the back of Clarke’s neck in her soft hand and giving her a kiss on the forehead. “Everything will get better with time.”

“That’s what Dad always said.” Clarke said, and her voice was small now... So small. 

“I know, Hun.” Abby sighed with a small, sad, chuckle. “That’s what he always told ME too.”

And Clarke suddenly realized that her mother was crying. The tears were falling, fat and silent down her cheeks, and she wasn’t even TRYING to wipe them away. And for the first time in a long time, Clarke felt like the woman standing in front of her was her mother again.

“I miss him.” Clarke said as the first tears started dripping from her own eyes. And she didn’t try to wipe them away as she leaned against the seafoam wall and let herself crumple to the carpet, pulling her knees into her chest and wrapping her arms around the mess of herself.

“I know, Hun...” Her mother sighed again, plunking down beside her and pulling her own knees in. “So do I, Hun. So do I... And, you know... it’s OK to be angry, Clarke... It’s OK to be angry.”

Clarke looked at the small woman cradling her knees to her chest beside her, holding the mess of herself together. “It’s OK to be sad, Mom.” She whispered. And she found her mother’s fingers and held them in her own as her mother dropped her head into her knees and allowed herself to break.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Abby admitted when the sobbing eased to hiccups and sniffles. “I don’t know how to do this on my own. I can’t cook. I can’t be here to help you with your homework or tuck you in at night or send you off to school in the morning with a goodbye kiss. I can’t help you paint your room or put up shelves or fix your window screen. I can’t cheer you up and make you laugh like he could. I can’t get the damn garbage disposal to work or keep the yard raked... I can’t do this all alone. I can’t do LIFE all alone!”

“I can’t even make you cookies.” She sighed. “After burning three batches, I went out and bought those stupid cookies and pretended I’d made them. I wanted them to be perfect for you. And you STILL hated them.”

Clarke looked at the woman beside her, broken, sad, overwhelmed, and terribly afraid, and all she saw was her mother, her messy, exposed, REAL mother. And she felt it building inside of her. She had no idea where it had come from, and she knew it wasn’t appropriate, and she tried to shove it back into the depths of her. But she couldn’t stop it. And suddenly the laughter was erupting from her. And it was loud and untamed and free and it sounded all right in Clarke’s ears.

Her mother stared at her, confused. She looked even more frightened by Clarke’s maniacal laughter than her smashing plates against the wall.

“Mom...” Clarke choked out when she found enough breath. “I hated those cookies BECAUSE they were perfect.”

And she choked back the laughter and looked deep into her mother’s eyes. Deep enough to break through the surface and reach the messy, broken, hurting parts below. “Mom... I don’t want a perfect mother... I want YOU. Plus... You’re not alone. We can figure things out together.” 

And her mother pulled her into another hug, and this time Clarke wrapped her arms around her mother and held her as tightly as her mother held her. 

“I have an idea.” Abby whispered as she pulled out of the hug, and her eyes were full of a wild excitement. “I’ll be right back.”

Clarke watched in confusion as her mother disappeared and then reappeared carrying a huge platter of pancakes and what was left of the most recent batch of cookies. She set the platter on Clarke’s bed, then strode through the room and threw Clarke’s window open. And Clarke jumped as Abby grasped the torn edges of Clarke’s window screen and violently ripped it from its frame. She grabbed the platter, leaned through the window, and set it down on the eaves of the roof outside. Then she pushed herself off the edge of Clarke’s bed and wedged her way right through the window and out onto the roof.

Clarke just stared in complete confusion as her mother again disappeared and then reappeared a moment later sticking her head through the window, now grinning like an idiot. “Come, on.” She waved at Clarke. “Get out here!”

Clarke tentatively clambered out the window and onto the slick, slanted, wet shingles. She found her mother sitting propped against the side of the house, the platter balanced awkwardly on her knees. She patted the empty space beside her and Clarke sat down,wondering what crazy thing her mom was going to do next.

Abby selected a perfectly round, perfectly tanned, perfectly fluffy pancake from the top of the platter. And she balled it in her fist, reared her arm back, and flung it into the emptiness before them. The pancake flipped and flipped and flipped through the air before landing perfectly flat on the hood of their Suburban. And the laughter suddenly erupting out of Abby was loud, and untamed, and free. And it sounded all right in Clarke’s ears. 

“Your turn.” Abby said through a wild grin, holding the platter out before Clarke. Clarke stared at the crazy gleam in her mother’s eyes. And she stared at the platter of fucking perfect pancakes and fucking perfect cookies. And after the briefest hesitation, she selected one perfect cookie and she balled it in her own fist and she reared back her own arm and she chucked it as far as she possibly could. 

The cookie burst into pieces on the sidewalk even as Abby sent her own cookie ricocheting through the branches of the tree beside them, taking a handful of the ugly dying leaves to the ground with it. And the two of them sat there in the cold and let the drizzling rain fall and fall and fall on them as they threw cookie after pancake after cookie through the air. And Clarke felt like with each release of her fist she was casting a little piece of the anger and the frustration and the fear and the terrible ache inside, letting it shatter on the ground below. 

And she sat beside her mother as they laughed and laughed and laughed, until the platter was empty and the perfect pancakes and the perfect cookies were just messes splattered on the car and the driveway and the sidewalk and the unraked yard. And they were so much better that way.

“I love you, Clarke.” Abby said softly, draping her arm around Clarke’s shoulders so that melted chocolate and maple syrup smeared against the dried blood on Clarke’s jacket. And neither of them tried to wipe away the sticky, bloody mess. 

Clarke looked at the woman beside her. Her smile was weak and small and sad and REAL. 

“I love you too, Mom.” Clarke answered. And this time she didn’t have to force it.

“Do you really hate my oven mitts?” Abby asked, lightening the moment with her chuckle. “I kind of like them.”

“They’re hideous.” Clarke answered.

“Well... Maybe we should set fire to them.” Abby suggested with a crooked smile.

“Naw... You should keep them.” Clarke replied with her own small smile. “We’ve already wreaked enough destruction today.”

And Clarke nestled in closer to her mother, wrapping her own arm around her mother’s waist. And the two of them just sat in the cold drizzle, staring out at the massive, unfamiliar world around them. It was a world Clarke knew neither of them could ever navigate alone. But maybe... Just maybe, they could figure things out together.


	9. North Wind Headhunters and Evergreen Firs

Chapter 9  
North Wind Headhunters and Evergreen Firs  
OR  
What’s Wrong with Badminton or Synchronized Swimming?

CLARKE

“Mom, I want to learn Tae Kwon Do!” Clarke blurted out as she strode into her mother’s room without even bothering to knock.

Abby, clad in her baggy lavender scrubs, was hunched in front of her vanity mirror trying to fix the mess of what was left of the mascara and eye liner that had survived the tears. She set down her eye pencil and gave Clarke a confused look.

“You mean where you fold little pieces of paper into cranes and swans and stuff?” She asked. “No, wait... That’s SUDOKU, isn’t it? No, wait... That’s not right either... Sudoku’s the puzzle with the numbers...”

“Mom...” Clarke impatiently cut off Abby’s confused ramblings with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t wanna learn ORIGAMI, I want to learn TAE KWON DO. It’s a Martial Art.” She added at the blank look on Abby’s face. “You know... Like Karate.”

“You want to learn Karate?” Abby asked as if the idea was absurd, as if Clarke had announced she wanted to go to clown school and learn how to juggle on a unicycle. 

“No... I want to learn TAE KWON DO.” Clarke repeated.

“What’s the difference?” Abby asked, confused.

“I’m not sure, exactly.” Clarke admitted. “Except I saw on the internet that Tae Kwon Do has a lot more kicking and they do full contact fighting.”

“Full contact fighting?” Abby’s lips pulled back as if the idea left a bad taste on her tongue. “Isn’t that a little... Violent? Are you sure you don’t want to do cheerleading instead, Honey? Or maybe dance? I mean... Rhythm does run in your veins, after all.” She added, shimmying her shoulders and swaying her hips in a way that made Clarke blush on her behalf. 

Clarke imagined herself prancing across a stage in a little pink tutu. She imagined herself in a tiny crop top and miniskirt jumping up and down and up and down in front of a bunch of gawking teenage boys. She didn’t know which idea repulsed her more.

“No, Mom... I don’t want to dance or do cheer. I want to learn how to fight.”

Abby’s eyebrows narrowed and she pulled her lips to one side as she surveyed Clarke. “Does this have something to do with the blood that was all over your jacket? Did you get into a fight today? Is someone bullying you?”

“No... I mean, well....” Clarke stammered under her mother’s piercing stare. She thought of Ontari and her goons and the elbow in her face and the All-star on her chest. And she thought of all the eyes watching her get her butt kicked and the two green ones that shone brighter than any of the rest.“I just... I want to learn how to defend myself, is all. Plus... It sounds like fun, and it’s good exercise, and... Maybe... Maybe I could make some friends THERE.” Clarke finished in a small voice. 

Abby frowned at her a moment longer, wriggling her jaw back and forth, puckering her lips then pulling them between her teeth. Then she sighed. “OK, Honey... I’ll think about it. I’ll look into it this weekend.”

“I already looked into it!” Clarke answered. “There are two schools in biking distance from here. So you wouldn’t have to worry about driving me to class or picking me up when you’re at the hospital. I could handle everything. You’d just have to sign me up, is all. Please? I really want to learn.” 

“Alright...” Her mother sighed again. “We’ll check them out this weekend.”

“Can we check them out TOMORROW?”

“Alright...” Her mother laughed with her own eye roll. “We’ll check them out TOMORROW. Now... Come closer and let me check out that nose before I go.”

“It’s fine. It’s really not that bad.” Clarke protested, trying to sneak back out the door. 

“Who’s the doctor here, Honey? I’LL be the judge of whether it’s fine or not.”

 

“Well... It’s not broken.” Abby announced as she gently prodded the bridge of Clarke’s nose and Clarke sucked the air in through her teeth and bit her tongue to keep from screaming. “But it’s already swelling a bit. I’ll get you an ice pack and some ibuprofen for the pain. But I’m afraid it’s going to be black and blue tomorrow.”

“Great.” Clarke muttered beneath her breath. She could already hear Ontari’s jeers. “Nice raccoon face, Geek! But Halloween’s not til next week.” Tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

“So... Are you going to tell me what happened?” Abby finally asked what Clarke had been dreading. “Did someone punch you?”

It wasn’t too late. She could still tell her the dodgeball story. She could still put on the fake smile. 

“It was an elbow.” Clarke admitted in a mutter.

“Who’s elbow?” 

“Just some girl in my class.” Clarke answered, dropping her eyes to the carpet. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Bullying IS a big deal, Clarke. Maybe I need to go and talk to your teacher.”

“No...” Clarke cried out. “Please don’t! I just... I want to try to figure this out on my own first.” Clarke knew her mother meant well, and so would Ms. Indra. But if either of them got involved, Clarke would forever be the girl who ran to her mother for help... The girl who hid in the shadow of her teacher. And she desperately didn’t want to be that girl. 

Abby frowned at her, considering. “All right, Honey.” She finally sighed. “I’ll give you a little bit of time to try to work it out yourself. But if you ever come home covered in blood again, I’m stepping in.”

“OK... Thanks, Mom.” Clarke breathed, relieved. 

And Clarke knew it was going to be a long, long day tomorrow, sitting through class in her raccoon mask. But she would get through it. And eventually the minute hand would bravely meet the twelve and she would rush out of the classroom before the green eyes could find her. And she would rush home to drag her mother to the Tae Kwon Do schools. And she would begin learning how not to be the girl who cowered behind parents and teachers. Because she desperately, desperately didn’t want to be that girl.

She wanted to be the girl who could fight for herself.

 

***...*** 

 

Clarke opened the door to North Wind Tae Kwon Do only to be struck by a blast of hot, humid, stale air. She stepped into a small lobby area filled with empty folding chairs and a neat row of shoes perfectly lined up beside a neat row of identical blue-gray duffel bags reading, ‘North Wind TKD Headhunters’ in white stitching along their sides. ‘Home of Olympian, Master Titus Fleim’ was painted along the main wall in massive matching blue-gray letters, and nearly every remaining inch of the wall was dedicated to a poster or a newspaper clipping or a magazine cutout, all featuring pictures of the same man. Tall, lean, and bald, the man wore an identical expression in every picture, something between a cocky smirk and an angry sneer, despite the fact that in most of the pictures he was wearing a medal around his neck or brandishing some gigantic trophy in his fist. 

From beyond the wall, Clarke could hear the erratic rhythm of feet thumping against targets, punctuated by yells that sounded less like the cheesy kung-fu ‘hi-yaaaaas’ Clarke was expecting and more like the wild cries of animals, the bleating of sheep. And above the din, was the sharp, cold voice of a woman.

“Should I get you some tap-dance shoes, Roan?” The woman shouted in an irritated voice that made Clarke’s blood run cold.

ROAN? Had Clarke misheard? Or had the woman just said, ‘Roan?’

“Maybe a goddamn frilly pink tutu? Are you doing Tae Kwon Do, or Dance? Because I can’t tell. Quit hopping around and kick!” The woman continued as Clarke dropped her eyes to the duffel bags at her feet, frantically scanning the names stitched into the side of each. 

“Sol! How many times do I have to tell you? Keep your damn hands up!” The woman bellowed as Clarke’s eyes froze. There, in the middle of the row was a bag with Roan’s name stitched in white. And beside it...

“Ontari!” The woman shouted. “If Sol drops his hands one more time, take his damn head off!”

“Mom...” Clarke made a grab for Abby’s hand and was about to pull her right back out the door. But Abby was already too distracted. The balding man had rounded a corner and was striding forward to greet them. He wore a thin smile that barely concealed the sneer Clarke knew lurked just beneath it. 

“Welcome to North Wind Tae Kwon Do.” The man said in a chilly, polite voice that made Clarke’s skin crawl. She didn’t know why... But something about this man... She immediately disliked him. “I’m Master Titus. How can I help you?”

“Yes... My daughter and I were hoping to get some information on the classes you offer. She wants to learn Tae Kwon Do.”

Titus eyed Clarke up and down in a way that made her wish she was wearing her puffy snow coat instead of her thin windbreaker. His beady eyes lingered on her bruised face.

“Looks like she wants to learn how to FIGHT.” He smirked. “Nothing brings out the fighter in someone like the desire for revenge. Broken noses must have broken noses, eh?” He let out a small, dry laugh. 

“She wants to learn how to defend herself.” Abby corrected him, struggling to keep her polite composure. 

“Right... Well, here at North Wind TKD, we don’t just teach defense. We train fighters. We produce champions. We can transform even the softest...” He spit the word, his lips curling slightly as he stared down at Clarke. “Weakest children into champions if they have the flame inside. Follow me... I have a packet with all of the information you need.”

Abby allowed Titus to guide her to a desk in the corner and Clarke followed reluctantly. The man handed them a small stack of papers and started explaining schedules and fees and contract options. But Clarke wasn’t listening to any of it, because from his desk, Clarke now had a proper view of the training facility where a dozen or so kids clad in pads of blood red or royal blue were paired off practicing their sparring under the angry gaze of a small but ferocious looking woman. 

“Sol!” The woman bellowed. “I said, ‘HANDS UP!’ That’s it... Everyone stop! Parot!”

The children froze, dropping their fists and turning wide eyes to the woman. 

“Everyone make a line right here.” The woman instructed. “Not you, Sol. You come here.”

A boy a tad younger and smaller than Clarke approached the woman, his head bowed before her. He looked absolutely terrified. 

“Since my WORDS can’t seem to penetrate this thick skull...” The woman said, smacking her palm against the side of the boy’s foam helmet. “Maybe all of you, TOGETHER, can teach him to keep his goddamn hands up. Sol... Fighting stance. Don’t move. Everyone else... Spinning-hook-kicks.” 

Ontari stepped up first, spinning on the spot and whipping her leg behind and around her so that her heel smashed against the side of the boy’s head. The boy had his hands up, but the force of the impact was still enough to make him stumble backwards.

“Good, Ontari.” The woman flashed a cold smile. “Sol, hold still. Get your damn hands back up. Next...”

Roan stepped forward next, slamming his foot against the boy’s jaw nearly as hard as Ontari had hit him and the boy fell to his hands and knees.

“Get your ass back up, Sol!” The woman commanded.

The boy looked like he was on the verge of tears as he slowly pushed himself up off the mats. A girl with dark hair so wild that wispy strands of it were escaping the confines of her helmet, stepped up next. Her spin was fast, graceful. The arc of her kick was beautiful. But her foot barely grazed the boy.

“What the hell was that, Luna?” The woman shouted. “You think saving your brother the pain NOW is going to help him when he steps into the ring and makes a fool of us all? Kick him!”

The girl didn’t argue or make excuses or pleas. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there watching the tears trickle silently down her brother’s face. 

“Hit him!” The woman snarled. And when the girl still did not move, the woman stepped up, shoved the boy to the side, yanked the girl by the straps of her chest protector and swiveled her to face the rest of the line. “Fine... If you won’t follow orders, you can take his place. Sol, boards... Five minutes. Drop your arms and you start again. Ontari, time him.”

“Yes ma’am, Master Nia.” Ontari answered, an evil smile on her face as she handed the crying boy two wooden boards. He held his arms out like Jesus on the cross, one heavy board resting on each palm, even as Echo stepped up and spinning-hook-kicked his sister hard across the temple. 

“OK... Well, thank you for your time, Master Titus.” Abby rose beside Clarke, giving her a quick tug on the wrist. “I don’t think we will be signing anything today. I have to discuss it with her father first.”

“Of course.” Titus called after them as Abby made a bee-line for the door.

“I am NOT signing you up for THAT, Clarke.” Abby said as they stepped back into the cool. “There was something wrong with that man. I don’t want him teaching you ANYTHING. One class in, and you come home with a concussion? I don’t think so! I’m sorry, Clarke... But you’re just going to have to pick a different sport. How about Soccer? Soccer’s nice.”

“Actually, Mom... Soccer’s one of the number one sports for concussions.” Clarke argued, remembering what she had read on the internet. “Statistically speaking, Tae Kwon Do is the safer sport. And I still want to learn it. Just because THAT school was full of psychopaths, doesn’t mean they ALL are. Can we please just check out the other school? Please?”

“Alright...” Abby acquiesced. “But if the next one is anything like THAT school, I’m signing you up for Badminton instead. Or synchronized swimming... You can choose.” 

 

The door to Evergreen Tae Kwon Do Center was already propped open as if to welcome them along with the cool Autumn air. The shoes here were crammed messily into colorful cubbies and the folding chairs were occupied by parents laughing and making small talk. The only poster on the wall here was a gigantic collage of students in a rainbow of belts striking fighting poses or showing off the medals wrapped round their necks, smiling through faces streaked with pizza sauce or birthday cake frosting, carving jack-o-lanterns or exchanging Christmas gifts. And the words painted on the wall here were bright green and black and read, ‘Five Tenets of Tae Kwon Do: Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-Control, Indomitable Spirit.’ Along the opposite wall was written, ‘Three Pillars of a Black Belt: Compassion, Wisdom, Strength.’

And Clarke heard the same rhythmic thudding of feet against targets, but here there was no icy voice shouting over the raucous. Instead, Clarke heard a voice that was both commanding and gentle; a voice that held authority but was also soft and warm. “Good power, Madeleine... I like it! Tucker, keep your hands up. That’s looking better, Cole, but remember... Twist your hips. The power comes from the hips.” 

Clarke rounded the corner to see that the voice belonged to a pretty young woman with dark eyes and dark hair, and high, sharp cheekbones. Her nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken at some point and she hadn’t bothered to get it set properly. The woman looked absolutely fierce. And yet, the light in her dark eyes was bright and she was smiling down at the children kicking clumsily at the targets in her hands. The woman spotted Clarke and Abby and lowered the targets.

“OK, kids...” She addressed the class. “Thirty crunches, fifteen burpees, and ten push-ups. Then everyone split into teams for Dodgeball.” 

“Yes!” The children whispered to one another, exchanging grins and hi-fives. 

“You can play for the last five minutes of class.” The woman said, shaking her head and chuckling at their excitement. “But no tears! If someone starts crying, game’s over and it’s back to Poomsae.”

 

“Hi, I’m Master Anya.” The woman extended a hand to Abby, and then, to her surprise, held her hand out for Clarke as well. 

“I’m Abby and this is my daughter, Clarke. She’s interested in learning Tae Kwon Do.”

Master Anya eyed Clarke up and down, and just like with Titus, her gaze lingered on the bruises around Clarke’s eyes. 

“It looks to me like you may want to learn for the wrong reasons.” Anya answered in a firm voice. But her eyes were soft. “I’m afraid I don’t condone fighting outside of the ring.”

“Neither do I.” Abby smiled. “She wants to learn how to defend herself.”

“Well, in that case... I’d be happy to help.” Master Anya smiled kindly. “Let me get you our information.”

“You would be in the Green Dragons Class.” Master Anya said, plunking a schedule down before them. “Which happens to start in about ten minutes, if you’d like to stick around and watch. Or, if you feel up to it, you’re more than welcome to jump in and give it a try.”

“We don’t have to sign a huge contract first?” Abby asked, cocking a skeptical brow. 

“No.” Anya chuckled. “We don’t do long-term contracts here. Our tuition fees are month-to-month. You never know when you might want to take a break for Soccer or Softball or something. It’s ninety-nine a month, but if finances are an issue, I do occasionally offer scholarship programs for students who are committed, hard-working, and dedicated. I don’t like to turn driven kids away because of finances.”

“Tuition won’t be a problem for us.” Abby assured her with a smile. “Ninety-nine seems quite reasonable compared to the last school we visited. North Wind wanted twice that amount, even with the four-year, Black-Belt Club contract.”

At the mention of the name, Master Anya’s face grew cold for just a moment. “Master Titus and I do things a little differently.” She said and Clarke could tell she was trying to remain respectful, but it was clear she also had a strong dislike for the man. “He focuses on creating fighters... Champions. My focus is on creating black-belts that understand that strength of character is much more important than a medal around your neck or a trophy in your fist. At Evergreen, we emphasize the traditional spiritual aspects of Tae Kwon Do, because we believe, that like trees, if you are going to stand firm through the storms of life, you have to have strong roots before you can reach for the sky. We still have a competition team... The Firs... But they understand that winning is just a bonus, a reward for hard work. The ultimate goal is growth.”

“How do you get on the competition team?” Clarke asked, speaking for the first time. 

Anya gave Clarke a curious, piercing look as if she was already trying to figure out who Clarke was on the inside. But it didn’t make Clarke feel naked or exposed like Titus’ glare had. It felt like Master Anya genuinely wanted to know the Clarke hidden deep down. It felt like Master Anya already cared.

“You have to be invited.” She answered. “I usually don’t invite anyone until they reach at least blue-belt level. But, very rarely... When I come across someone with the fight inside... I may make an exception.” She gave Clarke a crooked smile. “Tae Kwon Do is a sport that requires patience, diligence, and long-term commitment. It requires strength of body and strength of spirit. Most students fall away long before black-belt. But if you want it, every drop of sweat pays off in the end.”

“Right... Well, what do you think, Hun.” Abby turned to Clarke. “Do you want to give it a try today? Or should we talk about it first?”

“I’m ready.” Clarke answered, already feeling the adrenaline rush her system. She was more than ready.


	10. The Third Tenant of Tae Kwon Do

Chapter 10  
The Third Tenant of Tae Kwon Do  
OR  
Life is Funny (At Least Master Anya Thinks So)

 

LEXA 

 

“Thanks for the ride, Ms. Blake.” I recite the words just like I do every day.

And she gives me the same small smile she gives me every day. “You’re very welcome, Lexa. Have a great practice. And, YOU TWO...” Her lips instantly pull out of the smile and into a thin line. “Behave yourselves. No fighting unless you’re actually in the ring together.”

“Yes, Mom.” Octavia rolls her pretty green-brown eyes.

“Bye, Ma.” Bellamy waves as she pulls out of the lot. As soon as we’re out of range he gives Octavia a shove between the shoulder blades. “Because I’m OLDER, that’s why.” He argues, picking their back-seat fight back up right where they left off.

“You’re TWO minutes older than me, Bellamy.” Octavia counters and I’m laughing and shaking my head at the two of them because I’ve heard this argument a million times before. I already know what Bellamy’s going to say next and so does Octavia. And he knows we know, but he says it anyway.

“I was born a year before you, Octavia.” 

Strangely enough, both arguments are true. Ms. Blake went into labor in the middle of the afternoon of December 31st. And Bellamy finally popped out of her at 11:59pm. Octavia had followed him only two minutes later, but the calendar had flipped in the meantime and suddenly it was January 1st. Bellamy was officially the last Oregonian born that year and Octavia was the first born the next. And Ms. Blake still had the Oregonian’s newspaper clipping of the photo of her smiling weakly holding one wrinkly baby in each arm, framed on their living room wall. 

“No... You were born TWO MINUTES before me.” Octavia repeats as I push the gym door open and step into the steamy, stale air that smells like sweat and lemon Lysol and home. 

“You guys...” I cut in, looking over my shoulder at the bickering siblings shoving each other through the door. “It doesn’t matter either way, because...” I stop abruptly as I slam into someone and my stinky, nasty sparring gear goes flying from my arms and scatters all over the floor.

“Sorry...” I stammer as I duck to retrieve my gear, snagging one yellow-stained, shin-guard that’s still wet with sweat from our last class. 

“Hey...” Octavia says from above and behind me. “You’re... Uhhh... Uhhh... Uhhh... In our class.” She finishes lamely, and my stomach flips and dives and tumbles like a clumsy four-year-old trying to do cartwheels inside of me.

Because I glance up to see two wide blue eyes staring down at me. Her cheeks are red and her blond hair is sweaty and pulled back in a messy ponytail. Blueish purple-black bruises stretch over the bridge of her nose and into the circles around her eyes. And she looks as shocked and surprised and confused as I feel. We blink at each other for one impossibly long moment and then Clarke squeezes her way between Bellamy and Octavia and out the door faster than I can say, “Hi”OR “Bye.”

“You know that girl?” Bellamy asks his sister, confused.

“Duhh... So do you... She’s been in our class for like a week, Bell.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Bellamy still looks confused. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.” Octavia shrugs. “I can’t remember. It’s something weird like Clave or Claire or...”

“Clarke.” I say, keeping my face to the floor as I retrieve the rest of my gear, because even though I don’t understand why, I know my cheeks are burning red. “Her name’s Clarke.”

“Oh yeah... That’s it. Told you it was weird.” Octavia shrugs.

“Like WE have any right to call anyone else’s name WEIRD...” Bellamy laughs at his sister. “You SURE she’s in our class? I swear I’ve never seen that girl in my life...”

“She sits in the front row, Bro.” Octavia says, shaking her head at her brother. “I swear... Sometimes you’re so oblivious. But I guess it’s MY fault you’re so stupid... I hogged all the oxygen in the womb.” She laughs.

“Whatever.” Bellamy counters, giving her another push as they move past me and step onto the mats. “You may be the smart one.” He concedes. “But I’M still older.”

“By TWO... STUPID... MINUTES!” Octavia argues again. But I’m not listening anymore. I’m wondering how much of this practice I’ll be able to stumble my way through before Anya beats my butt at stepping again. I’m wondering what lecture I will get tonight about being stupid in the ring. Because I haven’t even tied my belt yet, and already my mind is somewhere in the blue, far, far, away.

 

***...***

Anya sets down her chopsticks and fixes her gaze on me, and before she even opens her mouth, I know the moment has finally come. I’m just grateful she let me fumble my way through the whole class without pulling me aside again. I’m tired of everyone watching my face become a welcome mat for Anya’s dirty heel.

“So, Kiddo.... Tell me...” Anya starts, swallowing down her California Roll and I feel like my own roll has lodged in my throat as I wait. “Did I miss your birthday?”

As usual, I’m totally confused about what she’s talking about. But though it seems like a completely random question, I know it’s leading somewhere. I just have no clue as to where.

“Ummm... My birthday’s in July.” I answer. And I’m confused, because I know she knows that. She hasn’t missed my birthday once in the last four years. Just this last July she gave me a brand new beautiful hogu... One that actually fits me; one that actually absorbs some of the impact. Before that I had used one of the nasty, extra, back-up hogus stacked in the gym’s corner and it was so beat up I might as well have just taped a pillow to my chest. Still, it had been hard to let go of that piece-of-crap chest protector. It had faithfully gotten me through more matches than I could count, and it was in its thin folds that I’d truly learned how to take a hit.

“Right...” Anya mutters, thoughtfully. “So you’re still twelve, right? I didn’t sign you up for the wrong age group at States, did I?”

“Yes, Ma’am... I’m still twelve.” I answer. And I’m still confused, because by her tone I know she already knew that too.

“Ok... So you’re just early, then.” She chuckles.

“Ma’am?”

“You’ve entered the whole teenage, hormonal, mood-swing phase a little early, Lexa.” She laughs as I just blink at her, not knowing whether I should be offended or not.

“Last week it was anger.” She says, picking up one chopstick and brandishing it like a tiny spear as she surveys the huge assortment of sushi she ordered. “Then it was... Uhhh... We’ll just call it HAPPINESS.” She chuckles in a way that makes my eyebrows furrow even further. “And tonight you were completely out of it again.” She says, finally skewering an avocado roll and popping it into her mouth. She grows serious as she chews, her playful grin drooping into the smallest of frowns. 

“And I’m not completely sure what was going on with you tonight. I can’t figure out if you’re sad or just confused...”

Oh, I can be BOTH, I think to myself.

“What’s going on now?” She asks and her voice is no longer teasing. It’s downright kind. “Does this have something to do with your new friend?”

I swear sometimes I can’t decide who has the better eyesight... Raven or Anya. It always seems that both of them have the magical power to see EVERYTHING I try to hide. And just like with Raven, there is no point beating around the bush with Anya.

“She hates me.” I grumble, dropping my chopsticks to the table and my chin to my palms. 

“Did something happen?”

“I was really mad.” I sigh, poking a limp piece of raw salmon around on its little plastic plate. “And I was really mean. And I said some things... I said some things I wish I could take back... But I can’t. And she’s gonna hate me forever now.”

Anya chews her sushi slowly, considering me. “I know what you mean, kid.” she finally sighs. “I teach you all how to use your fists and your feet, and nun-chucks and bo staffs... But the truth is that WORDS are our most powerful weapons. You can do a whole lot more damage with a couple of carefully chosen words than you can with a perfectly executed spinning-hook. And the wounds that words leave take a whole lot longer to heal than any physical ones. Trust me... I should know... I’ve had concussions and shin splints, stress fractures and goose-eggs, turf toe...” She pauses to shake her head. “God... Turf toe... That was the worst...” She mumbles before continuing, “Rolled ankles, and torn ligaments, and a broken nose... TWICE... It all heals eventually. But I STILL have some open wounds from things people said to me when I was YOUR age. Words are powerful, kid. And they can tear people down.”

“But...” She adds as I drop my forearms onto the table and plunk my forehead against them, dejectedly. “Like I said... Words are POWERFUL. And they can also build people up. There’s nothing that can help heal a wound like a genuine, ‘I’m sorry.’”

Again I think of the brilliant blue eyes. I think of the fire in them. And I think of the tears in them. “I don’t think a ‘Sorry’ is gonna fix this, Master Anya.” I sigh. “She already completely hated my guts BEFORE I was mean to her. Now there’s no way she’s EVER going to want to be my friend.”

“If this girl doesn’t want to be your friend, Lexa, then it sounds to me like she isn’t very smart.” Anya says with a small chuckle. I know she’s trying to cheer me up. But it’s not working.

“She’s SUPER smart.” I mumble. And just like on the playground the first time I spoke to Clarke, the next words tumble out of me again before I even realize I am thinking them. “And pretty.”

“Oh, yeah?” Anya laughs, as I bury my face lower into my arms to try to hide my blush. “I doubt she’s got anything on YOU, Lexa. Does she have wild brown hair and beautiful green eyes too?”

“No.” I answer. “Her hair is yellow and her eyes are blue and...” I pause to swallow and my heart is racing. But I might as well tell her... She’s going to figure it out sooner or later, anyways. Because, just like Raven, Anya always figures me out. “And apparently her belt is white.” 

Now Anya looks confused.

“Her name is Clarke.” I confess. “Clarke Griffin.”

“The Clarke Griffin who just joined the gym today?” Anya asks, surprised. “Did she know you take Tae Kwon Do with me?”

“No. Judging by the way she bolted out the doors when she saw me tonight...” I add, bitterly. “I’d say she was just as surprised to see me as I was to see her. Surprised... And disappointed.” 

Anya sets her chopsticks back down, stares at me for one long second, then bursts into a wild fit of laughter.

“What are you LAUGHING about?” I ask, and I don’t bite back the anger in my tone, because right now I’m not with MASTER Anya... I’m with the Anya who is like the big sister I never had.

“It’s funny.”

“WHAT’S funny?”

“Life is funny, Kid.” Anya says, her bellowing laughter mercifully dying down into soft chuckles. “LIFE is funny.”

I just stare at her, frowning in confusion, feeling very much like I’M the adult at the table and SHE’S the goofball kid.

“She doesn’t hate you, Lexa.” Anya states, matter of factly, and there’s no longer a trace of laughter in her voice.

“How would YOU know that?” I reply, a bit more sassily than I intended to. I drop my voice, apologetically. “I mean... You haven’t seen the way she glares at me. Or the way she avoids me like I’ve got the Chicken Pox or something. Most of the time she won’t even LOOK at me, like she thinks I’m the ugliest person on the planet and just looking at me makes her eyes hurt. She hates me.” I repeat, and my voice is tiny now.

“She doesn’t HATE you, Lexa.” Anya says again and now she’s chuckling once more. “She’s SHY.”

“What?”

“The girl is shy.” Anya repeats. “I think there is quite a fighter deep inside of her, just waiting to be released. But for now... She’s shy. I could barely get ten words out of her in class tonight. And...” She grows serious again. “I haven’t figured out why yet... But she’s hurting inside.” Again, Anya’s tone is matter-of-fact, as if she just commented on the girl’s age or ethnic background rather than the state of her soul. “She could probably use a good friend, Lexa.”

“She doesn’t WANT to be my friend.” I huff. “I already tried.”

“What’s the third Tenant of Tae Kwon Do, Lexa?” Anya asks in her ‘choose your answer wisely or you’ll end up doing push-ups’ voice.

“Perseverance.” I mutter.

“That’s right.” Anya says. “Give it another try... For HER sake.”

“By the way...” Anya adds as I just huff again and resume prodding the chunk of salmon growing leathery before me. “I’ve been meaning to tell you and the others... I decided to add another component to your black-belt test requirements. Before any of you can test, you each have to complete at least fifteen hours of assistant teaching with the lower-level classes.”

I raise my surprised face to hers, and I cannot hide the frown on it as she adds, “Seems like tomorrow is as good a time as any for you to start your hours.” 

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. And I just stab my chopstick into the floppy piece of salmon as Anya asks the waiter for a box. And I pull the stick out and stab it again and again. And I don’t find life funny... Not even a little bit.


	11. The White-Belt and the Black-Belt-to-Be

Chapter 11  
The White-Belt and the Black-Belt-to-Be  
OR  
Bend and Snap and Slip and Fall

 

  
LEXA  


“Spider-Man’s silly. Iron Man’s better than Spider-Man.” Dawsen tells Parker for the umpteenth time. Parker lets out the best exasperated huff a five-year-old can muster. He looks almost as frustrated as me. Almost.

“Dawsen,” I call again. “Dawsen, I said, ‘No more talking about Spider-Man or Iron Man.’”

Dawsen turns his wide, innocent brown eyes to me. “OK... But Spider-Man is silly. He can’t even beat...”

“The lizard guy.” I finish for him with my own exasperated sigh. “I know.”

“He’s silly.” He says, yet again. “Spider-Man’s silly.”

“Parker likes Spider-Man.” I say. “Let’s just not talk about him anymore, OK? Now, it’s your turn... Front-kick, front-kick, punch, pun- Aden!”

Aden is in the corner again. I don’t know how he’s managed to sneak out of the line AGAIN, but there he is, in the corner, playing with the heavy hanging bag that I’ve already told him is off limits to all Little Dragons and, for that matter, anyone whose head doesn’t even reach my belly button. 

“Aden!” I call out again. But as usual, it is like the boy is deaf. He responds to his name about as often as Helios does. I watch as he spins and executes a perfect tornado-round-kick on the bag. But before I can even marvel at his skills or wonder how a six-year-old, yellow-belt has mastered a technique I know Master Anya only teaches to green-belts and above, the boy has already proceeded to head butt the bag, only to be knocked backwards onto his own butt. 

“Aden!” I call again as he now wriggles underneath the bag and starts swinging it back and forth above him. 

“Aden!” I’m about to put down my paddles, tromp across the mats, and drag the kid back into the line by his belt. But before I can push myself up off my knees, the boy log-rolls out from beneath the bag, somersaults across the mats, and shoves his way directly into the middle of the line.

“Hey!” Rosey protests from behind him. “He cut! Teacher... He cut!”

“Aden!” I call again and finally, FINALLY his eyes meet mine. He looks mildly surprised, as if he only just now realized that I’ve been calling, calling, calling him. I signal for him to come stand before me at the front of the line, and amazingly, he does so obediently. He stares at me with a look of innocent confusion, as if he has no clue why I’ve suddenly summoned him. 

“Aden...”

“Yes?”

“Is your name, Aden?”

“Yes...”

“Are you sure?”

He just blinks at me. 

“How come you never answer to your name?”

Blink. Blink. Aden has blond hair and blue eyes and he makes me think of Clarke. But there is too much reddish-brown streaked in his blond and too much gray swirling in the blue. 

“Aden... You have to listen when I call you, OK?”

Still, he just blinks at me. But at least he’s actually looking at me. For once, I have his attention. For once, I think he is actually listening to me. 

“And what did I say about staying in line? After you kick you go straight to the BACK of the line, right? Just like everyone else, right?”

Blink. Blink.

“Don’t touch the heavy bag again, OK? Understood? Aden... Do you understand?”

The boy blinks one last time before he opens his mouth to respond at last.

“You have green eyes.” He says. And I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“And YOU have major ADHD.” I mumble, but whether or not he understood doesn’t matter, because already he is doing somersaults again. At least he is headed towards the back of the line. 

“Alright, Dawsen.” I sigh. “Let’s try this again... Front-kick, front-kick, punch, pun-”

“Spider-Man’s silly.” Dawsen interrupts me. 

“Yes, I know.” I sigh again. “You can tell me all about how silly he is and how great Iron Man is after class, OK. You can even tell me about the lizard guy. But first, let’s kick. Front-kick, front-kick- Aden! What did I just say about staying in line? Aden! Aden!”

I can hear muffled chuckling coming from Anya’s desk in the entry area, but when I turn my pleading eyes to her she immediately goes right back to pretending she’s too busy doing paperwork to notice my floundering. I glance at the clock above her desk as Rosey tugs at my uniform. 

“Teacher... Teacher!” She cries. “That boy cut again! Teacher...”

Ten minutes down... Twenty to go. 

 

***...*** 

“That was the longest half hour of my life!” I sigh as I collapse onto my back on the mats, sprawled out like I’m trying to make sweat angels. 

“You did... Uh... Well...” Anya pauses and again I can tell she is barely holding back the laughter. “Let’s just say there is room for improvement.”

“There were so many of them!”

“There were six of them.” Anya chuckles.

“Are you sure? It felt like sixTEEN. I think Dawsen counts as four, and Aden counts as five, and Parker counts as at least two. Did you hear what he said to me when I tried to get him to do Poomsae? ‘I just wanna play dodgeball, crazy master!’”

“Yeah,” Anya laughs. “Parker’s not a big fan of forms. We’ve been working on the first six moves of Poomsae Tae Geuk Il Jang for a month now. Only the first six moves... And he STILL turns the wrong way every single time. And then there’s Aden, who practically memorized the whole thing perfectly the first time I showed it to him. But we’re lucky if he gets through half of it before he completely loses interest and starts doing somersaults and cartwheels again. I swear, that boy has so much potential but- Oh, hello Clarke!”

At the name, I shoot into a sitting position and scramble to my feet so quickly it makes my head spin. Anya raises her eyebrows at me and I know I am blushing, but thankfully Anya holds back the snickers I see glinting in her eyes. I glance nervously at Clarke, but of course her eyes immediately dart away from mine and hold fast to Anya’s instead.

“You’re early.” Anya smiles. “Why don’t you come stretch with us?”

Clarke bites her lip at the idea, hesitating. Clearly, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near me. But Anya is roping her into this as much as she’s roped me. Anya doesn’t care if Clarke hates my guts and can’t stand to even be in the same room as me. She’s using her position of authority to manipulate us. Why? Because she still thinks this is funny. 

I plunk down next to Anya and shoot her my best, ‘I can’t believe you are making me do this,’ glare as Clarke ducks to take off her shoes. Anya smirks back at me, clearly pleased with herself and the game she’s playing. Clarke takes so long to untie her sneakers it’s as if she’s wearing quadruple knotted, knee-high, biker boots rather than plain old Sketchers, and I’ve already gone through butterflies and my pathetic attempt at the splits by the time she finally plods her way across the mats and plops down on Anya’s other side, as far from me as she could possibly sit without making it obvious that she’s avoiding me. 

“I think you already know Lexa from school, right?” Anya asks Clarke, her first attempt at filling the uncomfortable silence with equally uncomfortable forced conversation.

Clarke doesn’t answer. Maybe she nodded. But I wouldn’t know. We have our backs to the mirrors and she’s angled herself so that I can’t even see her past Anya without craning my neck.

“As part of her black-belt testing requirements, Lexa’s going to be helping me teach classes occasionally.” Anya tries again.

Of course Clarke doesn’t respond.

“So...” Anya starts again. Third try’s a charm, right? “Lexa says you are new at her school. Are you liking Oregon so far?”

Still no answer. At least, no audible answer. Clarke obviously doesn’t want to talk. But Anya is persistent. Maybe the fourth try’s a charm? 

“Where are you from?” Anya asks, finally switching from ‘yes or no’ questions so that Clarke HAS to speak.

“California.” She answers in a tiny voice.

“I love California!” Anya replies, cheerfully. “Whereabouts? North? South?”

“Long Beach.”

“Ooohh... Nice area. You’ve got the beach, L.A., Disneyland... Have you ever been to Disneyland?” Another ‘yes or no’ question, and I have no idea how Clarke answers it. 

Disneyland... I think to myself, bitterly. I used to dream of going to Disneyland someday. Back in the days when I dreamed of going to Space Camp, or Australia, or the Grand Canyon. I don’t dream like that anymore. Unless our school suddenly decides to actually mix it up this year and go somewhere other than the zoo for the end-of-the-year fieldtrip, there is no way I can even get my butt to the Newport Bay Aquarium to see the squids, let alone get to California to see the ‘Happiest Place on Earth.’ No... The only dream I still bother putting any hope into is to someday find a college that is not only willing to take me, but will also offer me a free ride. And I know that’s about as likely to happen as Space Camp.

“Oh... Tommy’s here.” Anya says, effortlessly pushing herself out of her perfect splits and onto her feet. “I have to talk to his mother about testing. Lexa... Why don’t you explain the Five Tenets of Tae Kwon Do to Clarke?”

I pull my feet back into butterflies as Anya abandons me, even though I’ve already done this stretch twice and I’m starting to worry my hip might pop right out of its socket if I hold it much longer. But I bite my lip through the pain, because butterflies gives me an excuse to look down at my feet as I speak.

“Uh... The Five Tenets of TKD are courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit.” Is all I say. “They’re painted on the wall out there if you forget.”

I don’t elaborate. And Clarke doesn’t ask me to. And the silence between us is like a wall... A massive, concrete wall with spikes and twisted barbed wire running along the top of it. And I don’t know if SHE built it, or if I built it, or if maybe for once we accidentally did something together. But either way, it is there. And the stupid, masochistic part of me desperately wants to try to scale it... Even if it means cutting myself open... Even if it means falling to the Earth and breaking into pieces on the ground. But I have a feeling that, even as we sit here, Clarke is still fortifying her side of the wall, maybe adding surveillance cameras or a really big, hungry Rottweiler.

“Hey, Lexa...” Tommy runs up to me, clutching the big, hot-pink, bouncy ball against his hip. “Wanna play Wall-Ball? I know you need a rematch from the last time I beat you.” 

Tommy is the cockiest ten-year-old I know and his smirk is far too big for anyone who still has baby teeth for molars.

“I LET you win last time, Tommy.” I lie.

“Yeah right,” Tommy scoffs. “I creamed you!”

“Maybe I LET you cream me.” I argue.

“Yeah... OK, if you say so.” He laughs and rolls his big brown eyes. “Well... Are you going to LET me cream you again? Or are you just going to sit on your butt?”

I glance over at Clarke, and of course she has her eyes glued to her feet just like I did. Part of me doesn’t want to leave her all alone. The other part of me is grateful, grateful, grateful to have an excuse to do just that. 

“Come on,” Tommy pleads. “We only have five minutes left before class starts.”

“Alright, alright...” I concede. “Five minutes is plenty of time to kick your butt.” I tease. “But, no cheating this time.”

“Hey... You’re the only cheater here, Lexa.” Tommy says, speaking the truth. “But it doesn’t matter. You can cheat all you want and you’re still going to lose.”

Tommy grabs my wrist and I let him pull me towards the wall, leaving Clarke sitting all alone in the shadow of her own. 

 

***...*** 

“Alright everyone,” Anya calls out to the class. “Grab a shield and a partner. Basic kicking. Yellow and orange... Up to double-kick. Green and blue... Up to tornado-round. Lexa...” She snags my sleeve. “Why don’t you take Clarke aside and help her with the first four... Front, round, side, and axe?”

“Yes, Master Anya.” I mutter because I have no other option. “Come on...” I mumble to Clarke as I walk past her towards the corner of the mats. She follows me silently.

“So... Front-kick.” I start, wondering where to begin. This is definitely not my first time teaching a white-belt how to kick, but it might as well be for how my stomach is flipping inside of me at the prospect. My heart is pounding and my hands are sweating as I grip the paddles. And I don’t know if I’m nervous or frustrated, excited or angry, or what. I don’t know WHAT’S going on inside of me. All I know is I don’t like it. I pretty much feel like I might puke at any moment.

“Uhh... It’s called front-kick because you kick to the front.” Obviously, Lexa... You idiot, I scold myself. “Uhh... Basically you lift your knee and you snap your foot out and you can hit with the top of it if you’re kicking a paddle or with the ball on a real person. And then, after you snap it out, you have to return it before you put your foot back down. Bend and snap... Just like on Legally Blond.” I try to chuckle at the stupid joke I’ve told so many times, even though no one ever gets the reference. And I know I’m rambling and I have no clue if my words make any sense.

Clarke doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t nod or make any reply. She stares at the mats beneath our feet. She stares at the paddles in my hands. She stares at the empty space between us. She looks anywhere but at me. 

“Snapping it instead of swinging it makes it more like a whip. So you get more power.” I continue rambling. “Maybe I should just... I’ll just show you...”

I front kick into the air beside Clarke. But she just continues to stare at the mats. So I take a deep breath and throw another.

“OK... You try.” I mutter. 

I can feel the frustration starting to bubble up inside of me. I’m starting to wish I was partnered with Aden. At least he could look at me. I hold the paddle out before me and Clarke swings a foot through the air to thud against it. She doesn’t bend. She doesn’t snap.

“Uhh...” I say. “You forgot to bend and snap. Here... I’ll show you again.”

Clarke watches my kick through the side of her eye, but she still won’t look at me properly and suddenly I can’t take it anymore.

“Look...” I hear myself mutter, despite my every attempt to shut my mouth. “I know you don’t like me. I know you don’t want to be partnered with me. But, like it or not, whether you hate me or not... we’re stuck together, at least until you can learn these four kicks. And you would learn them a lot faster if you could LOOK at me!”

Clarke doesn’t say anything. But her eyes finally meet mine. And I have to take a step backwards from their heat. And now that they’re on me, my mouth is finally shut. Shut tight. She is glaring at me again. But for once, I don’t think it is anger I see burning in her fierce eyes. I don’t know what it is. I can’t read them, and now I am the one turning my gaze to the mats, away from her brightness.

“Uhh...” I finally force my tongue to form the words. “Maybe we should just try axe-kick. It’s easy. You just swing your leg up and down... Like an axe.” I finish stupidly, before demonstrating the kick in the air. Clarke watches me this time and I feel my face burning under her hot gaze.

“Ok... You try.” I say, holding the paddle out high for her. 

It’s too high and her toes barely nick the edge of the paddle on her first try. I’m about to lower it for her when she suddenly throws a second attempt. She swings her leg high, leaning backwards to compensate and her stabilizing leg slips out from beneath her and, before her eyes can even go wide in surprise, both of her legs have shot into the air and she flops spectacularly onto her back on the mats.

I feel all of my anger and frustration rush out of me along with my gasp of surprise. “Clarke! Are you OK?” I ask, standing over her as she blinks up at me as if confused as to how she ended up sprawled on her back.

Her eyebrows pull together and her cheeks flush pink and her lip trembles, and for one moment I’m sure she is about to start crying. But then she opens her mouth and lets out a burst of laughter. Wild, shameless laughter. And I’m so taken aback by it, I’m not sure whether I should join in or not. But there is one thing I am sure of: I never want to be the one who makes this girl cry ever again. I only want to see her grin. I only want to hear her laugh. 

And I don’t care if she hates me for the rest of my life. I’ve already decided, here and now, I’m going to do everything I can to make this girl smile. 

“Don’t worry,” I say, extending a hand towards her. But, still chuckling, she ignores it and crab-walks the few feet across the mats to prop herself against the mirror instead. I plunk down beside her, not caring whether or not she has invited me to. “Everyone falls doing an axe-kick at some point. I remember when Bellamy axe-kicked himself in the face so hard his nose started bleeding and I couldn’t stop laughing at him. Then, literally like two minutes later I totally fell on my butt too.”

Clarke doesn’t reply. But I wasn’t expecting her too. We sit in silence for a second as she catches her breath, watching the others take turns kicking, letting their yells and the smacking of flesh on paddles fill the air between us. Master Anya eyes us curiously, but she doesn’t scold us. And I think of the words of wisdom she mumbled yesterday through a mouthful of sushi. And I swallow hard, searching for my own words.

“I’m sorry.” I finally say. And it doesn’t matter whether or not she cares to hear it, I have to say it. “I’m sorry I yelled at you the other day. I was a total butt-head. It’s just... I don’t know...” I stammer. My heart is going crazy inside of me again and I don’t know how to say everything I want to say. I don’t know how to do this. But I’m doing it anyway. “I just thought, when you gave me the backpack... I thought maybe that meant you wanted to be friends. But then I realized that you still hated me... And I didn’t understand why... And...”

“I don’t hate you.” Clarke interrupts me in the smallest of voices. And yet the words ring in my ear. 

“But...” I protest. “You never talk to me or even look at me. You always seem so angry at me...”

“I’m not angry at you.” She says. “I’m angry at everything else. I hate it here. I hate Oregon and I hate Portland and I hate our school. But I don’t hate YOU. And...” She pauses and I realize I am holding my breath, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to speak again.

“And... I DO want to be your friend, Lexa.” She says, and her voice is tiny, but it fills every empty space inside of me. “I just... I didn’t know how to tell you. I yelled at you for no reason, and YOU should have hated ME. And I didn’t know how to say sorry... And... I just... I DO want to be your friend.” She repeats.

“Well then... Let’s be friends.” I say. And I know I’m grinning like an idiot. But I don’t care. “I’m Lexa...” I add, turning towards her and holding out a hand. “I hate pickles and spiders. I love drawing, and German Shepherds, and mint-chocolate-chip ice-cream and Dots... but only the red and orange ones, not the yellow and green. And...” I swallow hard and let out a deep breath. “And... I lied... I DO need help. I CAN’T always do it on my own.”

Clarke takes my hand and I feel my fingers tingle at her touch. “I’m Clarke. I hate the rain and peas and Ontari. I love boogie-boarding and the stars and peanut M&Ms and anchovies on my pizza...

“Eww...” I laugh as she pauses to swallow hard and take her own deep breath.

“And... And I lied too. I CAN’T fight for myself.”

“Well, Clarke...” I say, pushing myself to my feet and pulling her by the hand still clutched in mine. “Let’s change that.”

***...*** 

CLARKE

 

Lexa’s hand was warm and sweaty, her grip both soft and firm, as she pulled Clarke to her feet. And part of Clarke didn’t want to ever let go of it, because Lexa’s hand felt all right in her own. But she let her fingers drift from Lexa’s as Lexa bent to retrieve the kicking paddles and held them out before her again. 

Lexa was explaining the mechanics behind a round-kick now, but Clarke was barely listening. Because she was finally allowing herself to look, properly look, at the girl. And the girl with the sun and the sea in her eyes was smiling at her again. Only this smile was wider and brighter and freer than any of the others. And the hue of Lexa’s eyes was a green prettier than any bucket of ‘seafoam’ paint could ever capture. And for the first time, Clarke didn’t turn away from their heat. And maybe the sun in them would burn Clarke alive. Maybe the sea would pull her under and swallow her whole. But it didn’t matter. Clarke had finally decided to brave the waves and there was no running back to the shallows now. 

And Clarke wondered if Lexa noticed that she was staring, but even as the thought brought heat to her cheeks, Clarke could not bring herself to look away. All she had done from the moment she had first glimpsed the light in Lexa’s eyes was look away and look away and look away. And now Clarke just wanted to stare, stare, stare.

Clarke suddenly realized Lexa was staring at her too; staring expectantly as if waiting for an answer to a question Clarke had not heard her ask.

“What?” Clarke asked, her face growing hotter by the second under Lexa’s gaze.

“I said, ‘Ready to try?’” Lexa giggled at Clarke’s cluelessness. 

“Oh... Uh... Could you show me one more time?” Clarke stammered, forcing her eyes to drop from the curve of Lexa’s grin to follow the curve of her kick. 

Lexa’s kicks were strong but graceful, fast and fluid, sharp and smooth and accurate. And Clarke did her best to mimic them, feeling altogether clumsy and slow, stiff and awkward. But Lexa was a patient teacher and though she laughed at Clarke, her laughter didn’t pound against Clarke’s earlobes or sink like a weight in her chest, pushing her down until she felt small. Lexa’s laughter was light and soft and airy. It was the kind of laughter that pulled at the corners of Clarke’s lips until she could not resist joining in with it. 

And by the end of the class Clarke was kicking well enough that Master Anya had smiled down at her and said, “Well... Between Lexa and me, we’ll make a fighter out of you yet, Griffin.” And she had flashed Lexa a wink Clarke was not meant to see. And Lexa’s cheeks had flushed a pretty pink, but her grin had only grown even wider at Anya’s nod of approval. 

And Clarke was drenched in sweat by the time they finally bowed out to officially end the class. And her legs were tired. And her arms were tired. And her abs were tired. But of every muscle in her body, nothing hurt as badly as the muscles in her cheeks. Because, though she did not realize it until she stepped out into the cool night, Clarke had been smiling the entire time.


	12. Lunch Break

PART TWO: Standing United Back to Back  
OR  
The Beginning of Something Beautiful

 

Chapter 12  
Lunch Break  
OR  
Grapes and Giggles and the Dumbest of Dumb Jokes

 

CLARKE

“I solemnly swear that I am up to...” Clarke said through a wry smile as she plunked the butterscotch pudding onto Mr. Kane’s desk.

“No good.” The man grinned through his wild beard, snagging her offering and pulling a bag of Cheetos from the shadowy depths of a drawer. “Mischief...”

“Managed!” Clarke giggled, practically snatching the Cheetos from his outstretched palm.

Mr. Kane went back to organizing papers on his desk as Clarke strolled to her usual spot in the corner. Despite his ever constant enthusiasm, she had yet to ever witness the man actually opening a pudding snack. She had yet to see him eat a single sugary spoonful. And Clarke could not help but wonder if maybe there was a little mini-fridge in the back room overflowing with untouched pudding snacks of every flavor stacked in neat little rows. Or maybe Mr. Kane took the pudding cups home with him each night to share with his daughter. Or perhaps he was eating them after all, but, though he let Clarke slide, the librarian in his blood was too strong and he simply could not bring himself to open the cups until he left the sacred sanctuary of the library. Whatever the case, the daily snack exchange was practically a tradition now, and it was always one of the brightest moments of Clarke’s day.

“So...” A laughing voice made Clarke jump behind her thick copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and she pulled herself from the dark corner of the Shrieking Shack back into the bright, fluorescently lit corner of the library. “You’re bribing Mr. Kane with PUDDING SNACKS?”

Clarke’s surprise and fear faded as she realized the voice belonged to Lexa, but her heart continued to beat wildly within her just the same. 

“Who knew a man with a beard like that could be won over so easily?” Lexa laughed and again Clarke could not help but join in.

“Can I sit with you?” Lexa asked, pulling up a chair before Clarke could even shoot her a smile or give her a nod in reply.

“You know...” Lexa balanced on the points of her elbows, leaning in towards Clarke with her eyebrows raised. “We can be friends at Tae Kwon Do AND at school. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Yeah, I know.” Clarke chuckled.

“So what are you doing here, all alone in the library?” Lexa asked with a tiny frown. “Why don’t you come eat in the Cafeteria with me and Raven and Octavia?”

Clarke thought of the massive cafeteria with its gray walls and gray floor and rows and rows of gray tables lined with laughing faces. She hadn’t stepped foot in it since the day her chicken-fried-steak had leaped from her plate to skid across the linoleum. And even before Ontari had tripped her, Clarke had already felt like she was lost at sea, drowning, suffocating.

“I like it in here.” She shrugged. “It’s quiet... Peaceful.”

“Yeah,” Lexa conceded, cocking her head like a deer listening for the snapping of twigs on the wind. “I guess the quiet is kinda nice.”

“Want a grape?” Clarke asked, pushing the lumpy ziploc baggy towards Lexa. “Or a Cheeto?”

“Thanks, I love grapes.” Lexa’s smile was so bright, Clarke was considering offering the girl her entire Pizza Lunchables just to keep it hanging there a little longer.

“Where’s YOUR lunch?” Clarke asked. “You going to go get something from the cafeteria?”

“Oh... I already ate mine.” Lexa replied.

“Lunch period just started ten minutes ago.” Clarke remarked, confused. 

“Yeah... I guess I kinda scarfed it down.” Lexa laughed, and Clarke couldn’t help but notice the hint of pink in her cheeks. “I wanted to come find you.”

“You should just bring your lunch with you next time. Mr. Kane won’t mind. Especially if you have something to offer him.”

“I... Uhhhh.... I have to get hot lunches.” Lexa answered, and as the pink flushed to red, Clarke realized Lexa must be part of the ‘No Child Left Hungry’ free lunch program. But she didn’t think there was any reason Lexa should be embarrassed about that and she would have told her so, but before she could find the words, Lexa was already laughing again. “And I don’t think Mr. Kane would let me bring in a tray full of Sloppy Joe’s and tater tots, not even if I brought him Krispy Kreme donuts.”

“Yeah... Maybe not.” Clarke chuckled, sprinkling cheese on her half-assembled Lunchables’ pizza. “Then again... He lets me bring pizza sauce in...”

“Marinara this close to his precious books? He must REALLY like pudding.” Lexa laughed. “Or... He must really like YOU.” She added, blushing slightly. 

And Clarke, feeling the blush in her own cheeks, didn’t reply. She just dropped her gaze and started slowly, meticulously adding the tiny, rubbery ‘pepperonis’ to her pizza. 

“So, Clarke...” Lexa slumped back in her seat and propped her feet up against the empty chair beside her, making herself right at home. “Why did your family move to Portland?”

“Well... My mom wanted either Portland, Seattle, or Colorado Springs.” Clarke answered. They were all places that had pine trees and squirrels and snow-capped mountains; places where you could see the fog of your breath most of the year; places where the oceans and the rivers and the lakes could pull the feeling from your shivering limbs within minutes. They were all cities that Abby was drawn to because they were nothing at all like L.A.. They were places where her mother thought the memories would never follow her to. “But she chose Portland after St. Vincent’s Hospital offered her a position in the E.R..”

“Oh... No...” Lexa corrected her. “I didn’t mean why did you move to PORTLAND? I meant, why did you move in the first place? Why did you leave California?”

“Oh...” Clarke mumbled, wondering how to reply. The question was innocent. Clarke knew Lexa was just trying to make friendly conversation. But her words cut into Clarke. And though she desperately wanted to stay right here, sitting with Lexa, Clarke was suddenly sitting in another uncomfortable plastic chair, surrounded by uncomfortable quiet, squinting against even harsher artificial lighting, watching nurses scramble by with squeaky shoes and clipboards. And then she was being led down a bright white hall, pulled by her mother’s shaky fingers wrapped around her wrist, following a doctor wearing a white coat and a frown. And her eyes were burning against the florescent brightness and her nose was burning with the sweet scent of lemon air-freshener trying (and failing) to cover the chemical stink of bleach trying (and failing) to cover the lingering stench of sickness and death.

And now she was whispering goodbye to a man they told her was her father. And the words felt all wrong on her tongue. Because she could find no trace of the man she loved in this face that was covered in bruises and gashes... In the face that was not smiling or laughing or winking at her. And she wanted to throw up. And she wanted to scream and run from the room. And she wanted to fall to the sparkling white linoleum and curl herself into a ball so tight she could never be unfurled again. But she was just standing there, blinking as the world spun around her and her mother nodded through her tears and the frowning doctor nodded back. And then, with a simple flick of his finger, the man had switched off the ventilator. And with the flip of that switch, Clarke’s entire life had been flipped upside down.

“Clarke?” Lexa’s soft voice called her back to the present.

“Ummm... Can we talk about something else?” Clarke asked in an even softer voice.

Lexa surveyed Clarke with a small concerned frown. But within seconds she was smiling again. “We don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want to.” She shrugged. “You can read if you want. And I’ll just...” She paused, wriggling her lips back and forth in search of something before snagging Clarke’s geometry textbook from the mess of books on the table. “Uhh... Study math!” She said in a mock cheerful voice.

Clarke gave her a grateful smile. But she didn’t dive back into the final battle for Hogwarts. She just munched on her pizza and watched Lexa absentmindedly flipping through her textbook.

“Hey, Clarke... What did Zero say to Eight?” Lexa asked, already grinning like an idiot at her own joke. 

“Seven ate Nine?” Clarke asked before immediately shaking her head. “No... That’s for why Ten’s scared of Seven... What did Zero say to Eight?” She repeated, cocking her head and furrowing her brows in thought. “I don’t know.” 

“Nice Belt!” Lexa chuckled. 

Clarke just stared at her until Lexa’s silly grin faltered.

“Get it?” Lexa asked softly, as if concerned Clarke might be stupider than she realized. “Because if you wrapped a belt around a zero...”

“Yeah, I got it.” Clarke answered. 

“But... You didn’t laugh....”

“That’s probably the dumbest joke I’ve ever heard.” Clarke replied, now laughing at the small look of confusion and hurt on Lexa’s face.

“Really?” Lexa asked, her expression now twisting into appalled disbelief. “Then I need to fix that. Cause I know a whole lot more dumber jokes than that one! Actually... The zero’s belt joke is one of the BETTER jokes in my repertoire of horrible, stupid, cheesy jokes.”

“Great.” Clarke said, sarcastically. But she couldn’t hide her grin. “Can’t wait to hear them all.”

“Well, I can’t just tell them all at once.” Lexa protested. “Each joke deserves it’s own moment of appreciation. Tell you what... I’ll tell you one stupid joke during lunch every day... That is... Assuming you still want there to be a ‘next time,’ like you said before...”

Clarke didn’t answer. She figured she didn’t have to, because by the tightness in her cheeks, she knew she was still grinning.

 

***...*** 

LEXA

“Dude... Are you going to actually CHEW your spaghetti, or what?” Octavia asks me, her eyebrows raised and lip pulled back in disgust as if watching a mangy St. Bernard slobbering his way through a bowl full of kibble.

“Huh?” I mutter through a mouthful of noodles, slurping at the bits that are trying to escape the corners of my open trap.

“You’re making me sick watching you.” She complains. “And I don’t wanna lose my appetite on Spaghetti Day. You know it’s my favorite.”

“She’s right.” Raven chimes in between sips of chocolate milk. “If you don’t slow down, I’m going to end up having to do the Heimlich on you. And, while I know I’d benefit from some hands-on practice on an actual human being instead of a plastic doll, I don’t think I’m ready to perform it on YOU. I mean, I’d rather test it on someone I don’t like, like Ontari or Roan first, just in case I don’t quite have the technique down yet.”

“What?” I ask, shoving another forkful of pasta into my mouth.

“Slow down, or I’m confiscating your lunch.” Raven threatens, tugging at the corner of my tray.

“Take it.” I mutter through my overflowing mouthful, before taking a huge swallow. “I’m done.”

“Dude... You just sat down. What’s the hurry? You have a hot date to get to, or what?” Octavia asks, looking torn between concern and amusement.

“I just have somewhere else I gotta be.” I grin, licking the salty-sweet splatters of spaghetti sauce from my lips.

“Could she be any more cryptic?” Raven asks Octavia, with her own look of concerned amusement. 

Octavia just shrugs. “Well then... If YOU’RE not gonna finish it...” She snags my half-eaten plate of pasta and dumps the soggy mess onto her own pile of spaghetti. And just like that, Octavia’s look of concern for my mental health transforms into her own grin at the sight of her spoils. 

“Enjoy.” I laugh, pushing myself up from the bench. “After all... I know it’s your favorite.”

And I don’t know if Raven is shaking her head more at me or at Octavia. But I don’t stick around long enough to find out.

 

***...***

 

“All alone again, today, Lexa?” Mr. Kane asks as I stroll past his desk, smiling at the sight of an unopened vanilla pudding snack sitting beside his elbow.

“Yes, sir.”

“You need help with anything?”

“No, sir.”

“OK... Just let me know if you change your mind. I’m always here, you know.”

I give him a small nod and a weak smile as I quickly glance at his eyes. And I want to hold his gaze because of the kindness in it. But, like always, I have to look away because of the sadness in it. And I know, just like Master Anya’s, Mr. Kane’s words mean so much more than they seem. He is offering me so much more than just help finding some forgotten, dusty book in this labyrinth of shelf after shelf of forgotten, dusty books. 

Only a few years ago Mr. Kane was almost like a second father to me, back when I practically spent as much time at his house as my own. But then Costia had gotten sick and the sleep-overs had abruptly ended. And I had waited for her everyday, but Costia never did come back to school. And shortly after she disappeared, her mother packed her bags and disappeared right along with her, leaving nothing behind but the sadness in Mr. Kane’s eyes. Mr. Kane stopped smiling and he grew a beard around his frown and suddenly I barely recognized the man who used to laugh and wrap me up in my Lion King sleeping bag so tightly I could hardly wiggle my arms; the man who would tuck me in beside Costia like two pigs in a blanket and wish us ‘goodnight, my Little Bedbugs,’ just like I were his own as much as Costia was. 

But now Costia is gone. And my own father is gone. And the sleeping bag with Mufasa and Simba gazing up at the stars is gone. I threw it in the dumpster one night because I couldn’t hardly bring myself to even look at it. Because it reminded me of Costia. And it reminded me of my father. And in the last few years I’ve barely spoken more than two sentences at a time with Mr. Kane. Because I can hardly bring myself to even look at him. Because he reminds me of Costia. And he reminds me of my father. And he reminds me of the fact that no one tucks me in at night anymore.

“Yes, sir.... Thank you.” I mumble and I try not to look at his smile. Because I know that I cannot make him grin like Clarke does. Because I am sure I only remind him of the fact that he no longer has any bedbugs to tuck in at night. And even though it is kind, the smile he has for me is always far too sad.

I make my way all the way to the very back of the library so I can sneak up on Clarke from behind her. I peek at her through an empty space where the B Encyclopedia ought to be, pushing the A, D, and C volumes aside so I can wedge my face between them. Clarke has the Deathly Hallows out again, propped in one hand, and a sandwich in the other. And I can’t help but smile as I realize that she doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to either of them. She keeps looking up as if waiting for someone. And it makes my stomach flip inside of me to know that that someone is ME.

I swallow hard and clear my throat and try not to laugh at the way she jumps in her chair as I pop out from behind the shelf and speak in the deepest voice I can muster. 

“Arrrr.... What be a pirate’s favorite letter?” I ask. I’m not quite Captain Barbossa, but for a twelve-year-old girl I think my pirate voice is pretty darn good.

“What?” Clarke pants, dropping Harry Potter so that she can clutch at her chest. “You scared the crap out of me, Lexa!” She scolds me, but already the smile is crossing her face and flooding light into her eyes like sunshine. And I’m not sorry. Not even a little bit.

“What be a pirate’s favorite letter?” I repeat, just barely managing to keep the giggles at bay.

“Oh... I know this one.” Clarke lets out the smallest of chuckles. “R.” She answers flatly with a roll of her pretty blue eyes. 

Yes! She’s taken the bait, just as planned. “No.” I growl. “It be the mighty ‘C.’ I answer, holding a finger out like a hook and then adding my thumb to curl it into a C. 

Clarke rolls her eyes again, but if anything, they have only gotten brighter as she fights the grin tugging at her lips. “OK... You’re right...” She admits. “That IS dumber than the 0 and 8 joke.”

Oh, she has no idea. I’m not finished yet. 

“What be a pirate’s SECOND favorite letter?” I ask.

Clarke just stares at me, looking confused. 

“Say ‘R’ again.” I whisper in my normal voice.

“R?” She asks, and at the look on her face, I’m sure I am not going to be able to get through the rest of this without bursting into laughter. It is building, building, building inside of me, and I have to take a deep, steadying breath to keep it there.

“Aye...” I answer, forcing myself to keep breathing as I pause dramatically. “No... It be ‘I.’ What be a pirate’s THIRD favorite letter?”

Clarke’s eyebrows are raised as if she is judging my stupidity and the giggles are so close to the surface I now have to hold my breath to keep them from escaping and ruining my pirate voice. I’m almost there. I’m almost there.

“Ummm.... R?” She asks, already looking like she regrets deigning to answer me.

“Aye...” I growl, my deep voice finally cracking in my losing battle against the giggles. “Aye... It be Rrrrrr.” I finish. And I finally let the laughter bubble up and erupt out of me. And I do not catch my breath again until Clarke’s pretty, soft laughs join in.

“OK... That was the most EPICALLY stupid, stupid joke I’ve ever heard. I don’t know how you are going to top that.” Clarke grins, and already I cannot wait for tomorrow’s lunch. 

“So... Are you going to Master Anya’s Halloween party tomorrow night?” I ask, plunking down in the chair beside her. 

“I dunno...” She mutters, nibbling on the corner of her turkey sandwich. “Rrrrrr you going?” She asks, and her pirate voice is so unexpected and so completely pathetic that I burst into another wave of giggles at the joke.

“Aye... Of course I am.” I answer when I can breathe again. “I never miss one of Master Anya’s parties. They’re the best. You totally have to come.”

“Well... If YOU’RE going...” Clarke bites her lip, considering. “Do we have to wear a costume?”

“Of course.” I chuckle. “It’s HALLOWEEN.”

“What are YOU going to be?” 

I have no idea. Just like every year, I have no costume. And I hardly think throwing our worn, holey sheet over my head and calling myself a ‘ghost’ is going to work AGAIN. 

“I’m not telling.” I answer. “I guess you’ll just have to come and find out for yourself, huh?” I tease, wiggling my brows. 

“I guess so.” She smirks back, tossing me a big, open ziploc baggie of grapes, laughing as they roll from between my fingers and trickle into my lap.


	13. The Warrior and the Pokemon

Chapter 13  
The Warrior and the Pokemon   
OR  
The Raccoon and the Lion

LEXA 

 

“What are you supposed to be? A colorless butterfly?” Clarke asks with a laugh. “No wait... I got it... A bat!”

“I’m a warrior.” I huff, hoping the black paint streaked on my face can hide the red in my cheeks. 

“A warrior?” She giggles. “You look more like a raccoon to me.”

“It’s warpaint.” I say in a sassy voice, as if it is obvious. I stole some black paint from the art room this morning and I rubbed it around my eyes and let it drip down my cheeks. I wanted to look ferocious, or at least a little intimidating. But I know Clarke’s right... I DO look like a stupid raccoon.

“OK... If you say so.” She laughs, throwing her hands up in submission.

“Well... What are YOU supposed to be?” I ask, even though it is obvious.

“Pikachu.” She answers, spinning on the spot to show me her lightning bolt of a tail. “Duh...”

“OK... If you say so.” I tease.

“Why? What did you think I was?” She frowns.

“A lion.” I lie. “All dressed in yellow, with your crazy mane of hair.” I reach out to grab a lock of her wavy golden hair, but she swats my hand away and pulls up her hood so that I can see her pointy ears.

“A lion?” She scowls as if offended, but there is laughter beneath it. “I’m Pikachu.” She repeats. “Pika... Pikachu!” 

“Hey, Lexa!” Octavia calls from across the gym. “Are you gonna come carve your pumpkin, or what? Or are you going to let someone ELSE win for a change?”

“Yeah, right!” I call back to her. “I’m the reigning champ three years in a row. You think I’m gonna give up my title tonight?”

“Come on.” I snag Clarke by the wrist and she lets me drag her through the mass of vampires and witches and superheroes laughing and running amok, over to the corner where Master Anya has covered her precious mats with newspaper which is now soggy with slimy pumpkin guts and goop. I find the ugliest, most lopsided pumpkin in the pile, snag it by its gnarled stem, and plunk down beside a very focused Octavia and a very frustrated Raven. Raven’s a perfectionist and she’s brilliant at most everything she attempts, but she sucks at anything remotely artistic. And I can’t help but laugh at the frown on her face as she glares down at her jack-o-lantern with its own crooked frown. 

I’m already digging my knife through the crown of my pumpkin when I realize that Clarke is still standing over us, clutching her own pumpkin, looking nervous and uncomfortable. I’m about to invite her to take a seat beside me when Octavia beats me to it.

“You gonna sit down, or what, Pikachu?” She asks. “You’re blocking the light.”

“Oh... Sorry.” Clarke mutters, stepping sideways to cast her shadow over me instead of Octavia.

“You can sit by me, Clarke.” I say, giving Octavia a small punch in the arm as I scooch over to make room. “Don’t mind Octavia... She’s stressed out because she already knows no matter how hard she tries, my jack-o-lantern’s gonna kick her jack-o-lantern’s butt. Just like always.”

“Pride doth come before the fall, Lexa.” Octavia mutters, not taking her eyes off the pumpkin gripped between her feet. 

“Isn’t that from Proverbs?” Raven chuckles as Clarke takes a tentative seat between us.

“What?” Octavia replies, confused. “Proverbs?”

“You know...” Raven explains. “The Book of Proverbs... King Solomon’s words of wisdom... The Bible...”

Octavia finally looks up from her carving to stare blankly at Raven. “I read it in a fortune cookie.” She says flatly.

“Oh.” Raven laughs again. And she pushes her jack-o-lantern aside and leans back onto her elbows. “Forget it. I’m not putting my name on this one. It looks like one of the Little Dragons carved it... You two can duke it out for the carving champion title. I give up.”

“You know you’ll probably win the costume contest anyways.” I say, eyeing her up and down. Raven’s always in the top running for best costume. And this year is no different. She’s dressed as an astronaut in a suit so convincing she looks like she just dropped from outer space. 

“That IS a cool costume.” Clarke chimes in in her small, bird voice. 

“Thanks.” Raven smiles. “I made it. I modeled it after the old Apollo A7L, but I know it’s horribly inaccurate. The PLSS is far too small, but I couldn’t find a cardboard box with the right dimensions...”

“The PLSS?” Octavia interrupts. “English, Raven.” She scolds her with an impatient eye roll, as she so often does when Raven starts rambling. 

“The Portable Life Support System.” Raven answers.

“The oxygen tank.” I translate for her. I might not be as smart as Raven, but I know my astronaut speak. My father loved to go off about the ingenious designs of the Apollo/Skylab suit series worn by Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. He loved to ramble... And I loved my father.

“Right.” Raven continues. “And no astronaut’s ITMG would ever be comprised of garbage bags and duct tape, but of course I didn’t have aluminized Mylar or Kapton film to work with...”

“ITMG?” Octavia sighs. “I shouldn’t bother asking... I know.”

“Integrated...” Raven begins. But before she can finish, Clarke’s small, pretty voice joins hers.

“Thermal Micrometeoroid Garment.” She says, and for a moment we all just stare at her. 

I think of the names of the Galilean Moons spoken in that same small voice and I think of the smiley face drawn on Clarke’s Solar System test in Ms. Indra’s red ink and I know I am staring at Clarke with the same look that Raven is wearing... a mixture of surprise and respect and confusion and wonder. And I want to ask Clarke how it is that she knows so much about space, but she is blushing under our stares and she drops her eyes and starts working on her pumpkin looking like she regrets opening her mouth in the first place.

“Whatever, Raven.” Octavia says. “Of course we don’t expect your costume to hold together in outer space. It’s a COSTUME. But Pikachu’s right... It’s a cool costume.”

“Well, thanks.” Raven repeats. “By the way... Speaking of costumes... What are YOU supposed to be, Lexa? A raccoon?”

“I’m a WARRIOR.” I huff once more.

“Oh.” Raven laughs, raising her hands out innocently before her, pumpkin goop still glistening in the grooves of her astronaut gloves. “Sorry... I didn’t know.”

“A warrior?” Octavia snorts, pausing from her careful carving to glance up at me. “You’re supposed to be a warrior? I’M a warrior.”

“Can’t we both be warriors?” I huff again.

“Do you have a sword?” Octavia asks. 

“No.” I admit.

“Do you have a bow and arrows?”

“No.”

“Do you at least have a knife or a pointy stick?”

“No.”

“Well... What kind of warrior doesn’t carry any weapons?”

“Maybe she’s a PEACEFUL warrior.” Raven giggles.

“I AM carrying weapons.” I growl, giving Octavia another punch in the arm. “They’re called my fists.” 

“Hey!” She hollers. “You almost made me cut off my horse’s head.”

“The Headless Horseman might prefer a headless horse.” Raven snickers.

“Clarke!” A new voice cuts in as another shadow descends upon me. “I’m glad you could make it!”

I recognize the muffled voice as Master Anya’s though I can’t see her face behind the gigantic zipped, black bag she’s wearing.

“Raven... Nice costume... As always.” She comments. Raven doesn’t do Tae Kwon Do because her clubfoot makes it almost impossible to kick. But Octavia and I still drag her to every fun event Master Anya holds and Anya always treats her as part of the team.

“Thanks.” Raven answers. “But I know it’s not accurate. The oxygen tank’s...”

“What are you supposed to be, Master Anya?” I ask, completely cutting off Raven before she can recommence her ramblings.

“Dead.” Anya laughs, unzipping the top of her body bag to reveal her blanched face covered in white paint with green rubbed beneath the eyes. She shuffles her feet to turn so we can see the words ‘City Morgue’ running down the side of the bag in cryptic red lettering. 

“Gross.” I’m about to say when a small purple ninja runs up to Anya and starts tugging at her body bag where her arm ought to be.

“Master Anya... Master Anya...” Rosey cries through her tears. 

“What’s wrong, Rosey?” Master Anya tries to kneel before the little girl, but thinks better of it after wobbling awkwardly in her costume and nearly falling.

“Aden says I can’t be a ninja because I’m a girl.” Rosey cries. “And he says only BOYS can be ninjas.” 

Anya unzips her body bag enough to pull an arm out to set on the crown of Rosey’s head. “Listen here, Rosey.” She says softly. “I’m going to tell you something really important... Something I want you to remember forever, OK?”

Rosey nods, her eyes wide, wiping the back of her hand at the snot dripping from her nose.

“Don’t EVER let a boy tell you what you cannot BE or cannot DO, OK Rosey?” Anya says. “Of course you can be a ninja. In fact... You know why Aden said that right?”

Rosey shakes her head, eyes still wide, and no longer tearing.

“Because he’s jealous that YOUR ninja costume is way cooler than his.” Anya chuckles. “I mean... Does he have a cool headband with a dragon on it?” She adds, tracing her finger over the wings of the dragon shining black against the purple crossing Rosey’s forehead.

“No.” Rosey answers with a small smile. “And he doesn’t have cool booties either.” She adds, clumsily lifting a foot to show us her ninja shoes as the smile grows into a grin. 

“Those ARE cool booties.” Anya exclaims. “In fact... You’re the coolest, fiercest ninja I’ve ever seen, Rosey.”

“And the prettiest?”

“And the prettiest.” Anya chuckles, shaking her head as Rosey grins and runs off to tell Aden all about how girls can be ninjas too. 

“Spider-Man ISN’T silly!” A frustrated shout rings across the room and I turn my head to see Parker yelling at Dawsen. Of course Parker is clad in the red and white suit of Spider-Man. Of course Dawsen is dressed as Iron Man. 

“Doesn’t matter!” Marky cuts in, his hands perched over his shiny, black, plastic utility belt. “Everyone knows BATman’s cooler than Spider-Man OR Iron Man!”

“I’d better go separate the superheroes before we have a live, low-budget, re-enactment of Batman Vs. Iron Man.” Anya sighs.

“You mean, Batman Vs. Superman?” Raven corrects her. 

“Like I know the difference between any of them.” Anya laughs. “I mean... Everyone knows Wonder Woman is the only superhero worth backing. Anyhow... Have fun carving, girls. Hope one of you can take down Lexa this year. Maybe you’ll be the one, Clarke.”

“No way.” Octavia answers for her as Clarke just blushes. “I’M winning this year!”

“No... I’M winning this year.” Lincoln suddenly cuts in, plunking down beside Octavia as Anya wanders off towards the arguing boys. 

“Yeah, right... In your dreams, Lincoln.” Octavia sneers. “You’re not going to beat me at carving any more than you ever beat me in sparring.”

“Whatever, Octavia.” Lincoln counters. “You know I always go easy on you in the ring. It’s not nice for boys to beat up girls, after all.”

“Go easy on ME?” Octavia snickers. “I always go easy on YOU, Lincoln. After all... It’s not nice for girls to make boys cry.”

“Looking at your ugly jack-o-lantern’s the only thing that will bring tears to my eyes, Octavia.” Lincoln fires.

“Well... Looking on your ugly face is the only thing that brings tears to MY eyes, Lincoln.” Octavia shoots back. “What are you even supposed to be, huh? A pathetic zombie?”

“I’m a monster.” Lincoln answers.

“A monster?” I ask, eyeing the red and white streaks of paint running across his face. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a scary mask or something?”

“What? Like your raccoon mask?” Lincoln snickers.

“I’m a WARRIOR!” I huff yet again. 

“No... I’M a warrior.” Octavia corrects me. “But the raccoon’s right... What the heck kind of lame monster are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a cannibal.” Lincoln answers. “I hunt and eat people.”

“Gross.” Octavia mutters as yet another shadow grows over me.

“What the hell kind of Halloween party doesn’t have ANY candy?” Bellamy complains, standing over us dressed as some kind of militaristic guard with a fake rifle strapped to his back. “I checked the whole room... Nothing but carrot sticks and celery and some kind of nasty, mushy, brown stuff.”

“I know, Bro... Tell me about it.” Lincoln says. “Master Anya caught me eyeing that stuff, told me it’s called ‘humis’ or something like that and that it’s full of protein, and practically shoved it down my throat.”

“We have States next weekend.” I remind the boys. “Of course Master Anya doesn’t have any candy out.”

“Yeah, but it’s HALLOWEEN.” Bellamy argues. “There should at least be some Tootsie Rolls or Smarties or fruit snacks or something.”

“Yeah... Not all of us still have to cut weight for States.” Lincoln adds. “Maybe if Master Anya let me eat some candy I wouldn’t be five pounds under. And I’m pretty sure there’s a law against not having candy at a Halloween party.”

“Master Anya makes the laws around here.” Octavia says, turning her attention from the boys back to her pumpkin. 

“What’s States?” Clarke asks.

“The most important tournament of the year, besides Juniors.” Raven answers, despite the fact that she doesn’t even do Tae Kwon Do. “But you can’t qualify for Juniors if you don’t place at States.”

“We’ve been training for States since August.” I add. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

“Maybe you could come watch us compete.” Bellamy suggests with a smile. “Cool Pikachu costume, by the way.” He adds, plunking down between me and Clarke. 

“Thanks.” Clarke replies, blushing slightly. And all of the sudden I feel myself frowning.

“I’m Bellamy.” Bellamy adds, holding out a hand to Clarke.

“Duh, Bellamy.” I cut in, not sure why I am suddenly so irritated with him. “She already knows you. We’re all in the same class.”

“I know... I was just being courteous, Lexa. It is the first tenant after all, remember?” Bellamy replies, shooting me a small frown. His narrowed eyebrows rise critically as he stares at me. “What are YOU supposed to be?”

“I’m a...”

“She’s a raccoon, Bro.” Octavia cuts over me before I can answer. And I just clench my jaw and hold my tongue as everyone snickers.

“Whatever.” I mutter, tossing a clump of pumpkin goop close enough to Octavia to make her shriek in protest. “My costume might suck. But my pumpkin’s gonna kick all your butts.”

“Anyways...” Bellamy says, turning his glistening brown eyes back towards Clarke. “Like I said... You should come watch us compete this Saturday.”

“I dunno.” Clarke answers, shyly. “Maybe...” She leans past Bellamy so I can see her droopy, black-tipped ears. “You’re fighting, Lexa?”

“Course she is.” Octavia answers. “Someone has to deflate Ontari’s big, fat head. And I’m too light for her division. I have to settle for Echo.”

“You’re going up against Ontari?” Clarke asks with wide eyes. “She’s such a...”

“Bitch?” Lincoln offers with a snort. 

“Ass-wipe?” Octavia suggests.

“Supercilious boor?” Raven chimes in.

“Ontari’s a bitch and an ass-wipe.” Bellamy says, turning to Raven. “But I wouldn’t say she’s boring.”

“BOOR, Bellamy.” Raven rolls her eyes. “Not BORE.”

“A male pig, bro.” Lincoln explains.

“No, not a BOAR, a-”

“Yes, I’m fighting Ontari.” I cut in over Raven’s exasperated voice. 

“It’s gonna be a hell of a fight.” Lincoln says. “Lexa’s in it for revenge. Ontari kicked her ass last year.”

“Hey...” I protest, now chucking a scoop of goop at Lincoln instead. He dodges it, laughing as it ends up splattering the newspaper close enough to Octavia to make her shriek angrily again. “I was sick last year, remember? Tonsillitis. I shouldn’t even have been fighting. And Ontari heard me coughing in the holding area and...”

“Yeah... Yeah... We’ve heard this story a hundred times, Lexa.” Bellamy sighs.

“She punched me in the throat!” I mutter angrily. “And the ref totally saw it and didn’t even give her a kyongo.”

“A half-point deduction.” Raven translates for me as Clarke’s eyebrows furrow.

“She should have been disqualified.” I complain. “And all she got was a stupid warning.”

“See.” Lincoln says, raising his red-streaked eyebrows at Clarke. “Revenge. She’s in it for revenge. She’s angry.”

“Master Anya says anger makes you stupid in the ring.” I say. “I’m not going in angry, looking for revenge. I’m just going to treat her like any other fighter. I’m gonna be smart and calm and I’m gonna beat her butt fair and square.”

Bellamy leans in towards Clarke. “Lincoln’s right... She’s angry.” He says, laughing and completely ignoring my glare. “She’s totally in it for the revenge. Course... Ontari’s not gonna make it easy for her.”

“How about you just focus on Roan, Bellamy.” I spit. “And let me worry about Ontari.” 

Again Bellamy just ignores my glare. “Cool jack-o-lantern.” He says to Clarke. “It’s a bat, right?”

“No.” Clarke laughs as I glance past Bellamy to see the pattern Clarke carved into her pumpkin. I only recognize it because I spent ten minutes painting it onto my own face earlier this afternoon, frowning into the mirror the whole time. “It’s a warrior.” She says, cocking a shy smile at me. And I feel my irritation with Bellamy draining from me like the slimy pumpkin seeds oozing from the cracks between my fingers.

Clarke holds my gaze and her smile drops as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Can you beat Ontari?” She asks. 

“You’ve never seen me fight.” Is all I say and I am smiling as I wipe my hands and pull my hollowed pumpkin closer and set to work on the lion’s wild mane.


	14. The Sour Taste

Chapter 14  
The Sour Taste  
OR  
Goons in the Cafeteria and Clowns in the Library

LEXA

Before I can pull the spoon from my mouth something bashes into the back of my head and my teeth clatter painfully around the metal as I nearly choke on the huge mouthful of fried rice I just shoveled in. 

“You got your ER trip all scheduled for Saturday night, Geek #1?” Ontari snarls from behind me. 

I want to turn around and fire something back at her... Something witty... Something threatening. But all I can do is cough and gasp for air, sending grains of soggy rice and tiny squares of mushy carrots and cold peas and bits of greasy chicken flying all over Raven’s and Octavia’s trays.

“You don’t schedule trips to the ER, you doltish dunce.” Raven answers for me as I cough and sputter and try to catch a breath. “By definition, emergencies are unforeseen and unexpected, and therefore cannot be scheduled.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Freak.” Ontari spits at Raven. 

“Yeah, Freak.” Echo adds. “She wasn’t talking to you.”

“Echo,” Raven replies with a dramatic roll of her big brown eyes. “Unless you have something innovative to add to the conversation, if you could just do us all a favor and keep your mouth as shut as Roan’s, that would be superb. If only all THREE of you lummoxes were aphasic...” Raven sighs longingly. 

I know that just being friends with Raven will boost my future scores on the verbal portion of the ACTs, but more than that benefit of her friendship, there are few things as entertaining as watching the puzzled blank stares her insults invariably bring to the faces of any fools stupid enough to challenge her to a game of name-calling.

“Shut up, Freak.” Ontari growls at Raven. “I said I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Yeah, she said she wasn’t talking to you.” Echo adds.

“You shut up too, Echo.” Ontari mumbles impatiently before turning her ugly, mean eyes to me. “I hope you’ve been practicing getting kicked in the face, Lexa. ‘Cause come Saturday, the Head Hunters will be a-hunting.”

“Yeah, the Head Hunters will be a-hunting.” Echo echoes out of habit before Ontari’s annoyed glare silences her.

“Arrogance is Fear’s most transparent mask, Ontari.” Octavia states, matter-of-factly, taking a casual bite from her apple with a look as if she is so far from intimidated that she is actually bored.

It even takes ME a second to grasp the meaning behind Octavia’s words and I know there is no chance any of the Stooges will understand them any more than they ever understand any of Raven’s insults. Ontari looks confused for a moment before her sneer returns. 

“Whatever, Octo-PUSSY-a.” She snarls. “I hope YOU’VE been practicing getting hit in the face too, ‘cause Echo’s coming for YOU.”

“Yeah... I’m coming for YOU.” Echo says with her own stupid smirk.

“Why wait until Saturday?” Octavia growls. “How about you go outside right now and practice falling down? I’ll be there in a minute.”

Octavia delivers the line even better than Joe Dirt, himself, and if I hadn’t already spit my rice all over her and Raven, I’d be spitting it all over Ontari right now as hard as I am laughing.

“Laugh now, Lexa.” Ontari growls. “Come Saturday, all you’ll be doing is crying while I wear the gold medal.”

“I think you’ve got it backwards, Ontari.” I say, trying to keep my voice as calm and cool as Octavia’s, even as the anger bubbles like magma rising within me. “YOU’RE going to be the one crying Saturday while I wear TWO medals and you wear nothing but a pathetic frown.”

“TWO medals?” Ontari snickers. “Everyone knows getting a medal for POOMSAE is like getting a trophy in a chess tournament. Only geeks like you sign up for Poomsae. Geeks who can’t fight.”

“Oh, so THAT’S why you never sign up for forms, Ontari?” I say sarcastically. “Because you’re too COOL for them? I always thought it was because, unlike sparring, when you suck at Poomsae you can’t just punch people in the throat and cheat your way to the gold... My bad.”

“Oh,” Raven chimes in, turning towards me casually with a shrug of feigned surprise. “Here, I always thought it was because she was too dense to memorize more than the first four moves of a form, let alone perform them in front of an audience.”

“Shut up, Raven.” Ontari hisses. “What would YOU know about any of it? Like you can even DO the first four moves of any of the forms, you duck-footed, Freak.” 

“Duck-footed implies that my feet point OUTwards, you pea-brained, ignoramus.” Raven sighs with another impatient roll of her eyes as if she is growing weary of arguing with a toddler. “I think what you meant to call me was ‘pigeon-toed, Freak.’ And, ‘Pigeon’ being so similar to ‘Raven,’ you really missed out on an opportunity for an actually half-clever insult there.”

“I don’t care if you’re a pigeon or a duck or a damn flamingo.” Ontari snarls back at Raven. “Either way, you’re still a freak.”

“Yeah... Even if you were a PEACOCK, you would still be a freak!” Echo says with a laugh, clearly proud of her own joke. She raises a hand towards Ontari as if expecting a high five. Ontari, like the rest of us, just ignores her. Raven is the only one who acknowledges the comment, staring at Echo as if completely bewildered that such stupidity could possibly exist in a human being.

“I rescind my previous comment, Echo.” Raven says. “Even if you DO have something innovative to add to the conversation, it would still benefit us all if you would refrain from verbalizing the asinine thoughts drifting through the vacant spaces of your brain.”

Echo’s eyebrows furrow and her lips pucker in confusion, trying to sort out the insult so she can formulate a comeback. But somewhere in the process her thoughts seem to dissolve, lost in one of those vacant spaces, swallowed in the void between her ears. 

“Vast improvement.” Raven comments, nodding approvingly at Echo’s scrunched face and sealed lips. “You know, it sure is ironic...” She adds, turning her eyes back to Ontari. “For a team from a school named “North Wind,” you all are sure full of a lot of hot air. How about you leave us in peace and go spew your nugatory threats elsewhere? Between your repugnant, befuddled faces and your word vomit, I’m losing my appetite.”

“I said, ‘Shut up, Raven.’” Ontari repeats, angry and just a little flustered. “You know... You’re lucky you’re a cripple or I’d kick your ass too. Then again, by the time I’m finished with Lexa, she’ll be limping worse than you. You too, Octavia. You three will be a...” She pauses, apparently searching for the right word. “A... a set of three...”

“A trio?” Raven provides with another roll of her eyes.

“Of cripples.” Ontari finishes.

“I’d rather be an invalid than an imbecile any day.” Raven announces, as I finally push myself from the bench to stand before Ontari, squaring my shoulders and meeting her glare with my own, close enough to smell onions and tuna on her breath. Beside her, Roan and Echo close ranks, tightening around Ontari like my fingers clenching around the empty spaces in my fists. 

“Lexa...” Raven warns in a low voice, even as I hear the scrape of metal on linoleum behind me. “Save it for Saturday.” 

Ontari’s beady eyes flicker from me to the space behind me where I know Octavia is now on her feet as well. She gives each of us a snarl, her eyes returning to mine as she takes a step even closer to me. My nostrils are flared. My heart is pounding so hard I feel the blood throbbing in my ears. My fists are clenched. My teeth are clenched. My whole body is clenched. Every part of me is tense, tight as a rubber band stretched taut. I am on the verge of snapping.

Then Ontari’s snarl curls into a smirk as she abruptly lets out a small laugh, leaning past me casually to snag my apple off my tray on the table behind me. 

“The Freak’s right.” She says. “There’s no rush. Saturday’s coming. And so are we.”

“I’m not scared of you.” I growl, holding my ground as Ontari leans her face in close to mine; close enough for the lukewarm juice of my apple to spray the tip of my nose as she bites into it.

Ontari pushes the apple’s flesh into the cavern of her cheek. “You should be.” She says. Then she takes a step back, bites off another chunk of my apple and tosses it’s ruined remains at me. My fists still clenched at my side, I let the fruit bounce off my chest and fall to the floor with a juicy smack as Ontari and her cronies turn to stroll away.

I’m still shaking with anger as I sit back down across from Raven and Octavia.

“Arrogance is Fear’s most transparent mask?” Raven asks Octavia with a chuckle. “Another word of wisdom from a fortune cookie?”

Octavia shrugs, shoveling a spoonful of fried rice into her mouth. “What can I say?” She mumbles through her food before pausing for a thick swallow. “Bellamy’s always dragging me and Mom to Panda Express. Their fried rice is just about as good as this fake Chinese crap.”

I stare down at my own mess of a plate, the mushy rice and bits of vegetables glinting in their coating of cold grease beside the empty slot on the tray where my apple once sat. I don’t know if it was more her nasty words or her nasty breath, but Ontari left a horrible taste in the back of my mouth that I cannot shake. 

“I’m not hungry anymore.” I declare, pushing my plate towards Octavia and myself back to my feet.

Neither Raven nor Octavia look surprised or question me as I prepare to leave. Octavia shrugs and, as usual, piles my barely touched lunch onto hers. It’s a wonder that she doesn’t have to cut weight what with all the food I’ve been donating to her lately.

“Say ‘Hi’ to Clarke for us.” Raven says, nonchalantly.

“What?” I ask, surprised. I’ve never told either of them that the reason I scarf my food down and race out of the cafeteria each day is so that I can go find Clarke in the library. I’m not sure why I haven’t told them. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been intentionally trying to keep it a secret or anything. It’s just...

“Isn’t that where you’re going?” Raven asks. Her voice isn’t accusatory, yet for some reason I feel strangely uncomfortable, even a little bit guilty. “To hang out with Clarke? You know... You can invite her to come sit with us. We’re cool with her, right Octavia?”

Octavia just shrugs, shoveling more rice into her mouth. “Yeah... She’s cool with me. Kinda quiet. But I guess since she joined our gym she’s a Fir now too. She’s one of us.”

Just like I don’t know why I’ve been keeping my lunches with Clarke a secret, I don’t know why it’s a relief for me to hear these words mumbled between Octavia’s slobbery chews. Did I think my best friends wouldn’t approve of Clarke? Did I think they would resent me for wanting to spend time with her instead of them? I don’t know what I thought.

“I did invite her.” I say with my own shrug. It’s true. And again, I’m not exactly sure why, but I know It’s also true that I’m now glad that she refused my invitation. I know Clarke could fit into our group, merging seamlessly into our little bubble in this throng of laughing, shouting, children. But somehow, sitting with her in the quiet, peaceful corner of the library... It’s as if everything else, everyONE else, falls away. As if everything and everyone pauses for just the two of us, and for that half hour nothing else exists. Nothing else matters. 

“She just...” I continue. “She doesn’t really like the cafeteria.”

“I wonder why.” Raven says sarcastically, glaring across the roiling sea of bobbing heads to the table where Ontari sits with her lemmings, snickering and using her fingernails to flick bits of Roan’s fried rice at the backs of unsuspecting kids. The foul taste in my mouth returns as I watch her, a taste like sour milk curdling on the back of my tongue. 

“I’ll see you guys in Bio.” I say with a lazy wave, finally turning to push my way through the maze of tables and out the doors.

 

***...*** 

“Hey there, Lexa.” Mr. Kane fixes a small smile on me as I sidle my way through the library’s metal detectors. “I’ve got something for you.”

He reaches into the recesses of his desk as I approach, pulling out a puffy bag of Fritos.

“I don’t have any pudding to trade with you.” I frown, confused.

“Oh... Don’t worry... Clarke’s got me covered on the sugar front.” Mr. Kane chuckles. “I was hoping maybe I could make a trade with you for something much more valuable and lasting than sugar.”

“I don’t have anything to offer you.” I say, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

“Sure you do, Lexa.” Mr. Kane’s smile widens as my confused frown only deepens. “You have something to offer that’s worth more than you can imagine and yet won’t cost you a thing... Something you’ll never run out of, no matter how much of it you give away... Something that only increases the more that you share it with others.”

I have no idea what Mr. Kane is talking about. Is this some strange riddle I’m meant to solve? His eyes are glinting with anticipation, the curve of his smile cutting through his beard like a thick scar. I make no move to grab the Fritos still grasped in his outstretched hand, even as he lets the package drop from his fist until only its corner hangs from his fingertips, dangling in front of me.

“I’m talking about laughter, Lexa. Magical laughter.” Mr. Kane chuckles, seemingly amused by my confusion. “Clarke tells me you’re quite the comedian.” 

He pauses, letting his hand drop to his desk. His smile droops a hare. The light in his eyes dims just a notch. “I could always use a bit of laughter.” He says, his deep voice growing soft, almost hollow. 

And I know he is thinking of Costia now, because I am too. And for a moment there is only silence between us; the thick, almost palpable silence of Costia’s absence; the silence of her jokes never told; the silence of her laughter never shared.

And the sour taste on my tongue only thickens as I force the words from my mouth. “Oh... Uhh... OK... How many kids with ADHD does it take to tell a joke?”

Mr. Kane scrunches his lips to one side, cocking his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know.” He admits after a moment. “How many?”

“How many what?” I ask, fixing him with my best impression of the innocently oblivious stare Aden always wears when I scold him.

Mr. Kane eyes me beneath furrowed brows, his smile half-cocked as if he is unsure whether my confusion is feigned or genuine, and even more unsure as to whether or not he should be laughing. “How many ADHD kids does it take?” He clarifies.

“To do what?” I ask.

“To tell a...”

“Hey...” I cut him off. “Wanna play some video games?”

Mr. Kane stares at me blankly long enough for the heat in my cheeks to radiate into my earlobes. Then he suddenly bursts into deep, rumbling laughter that spills out of him and seeps into the surrounding silence of the library like soda into the parched pages of a book. 

“That’s the...” He struggles to speak between laughs.

“I know...” I interrupt with an embarrassed chuckle of my own. “The dumbest joke you’ve ever heard, right?”

He just smiles and thrusts the bag of Fritos towards me again. “Go on...” He stutters, gasping for breath. “Take it. It was well earned.” 

The sour taste is still in my mouth. I’m not hungry... Definitely not hungry for corn chips. But the insistence in Mr. Kane’s eyes is so intense, I see no way around it. 

“Thanks.” I mutter, finally accepting the chips, still confused by this entire encounter; confused as to why Mr. Kane is offering me anything when I have nothing of real value to give him in return.

“Thanks for the chuckle.” He replies and he drops his gaze back to the piles of books and papers stacked neatly on his desks like the buildings of some miniature city, but not before flashing me one last smile. A small smile. A sad smile.

And it is only then, as I turn to walk away, glancing down at the bag of chips in my hand, the shiny red and yellow wrapper glinting before me in the library’s harsh florescent lights... It is only then that it hits me.

The memory flashes in my mind vivid and clear, as if someone has erected a movie screen in the recesses of my frontal lobe and loaded a film I’d once loved but have long forgotten: Costia sitting across from me, a Hello Kitty barrette sweeping her wispy bangs from her eyes, the nub of one front tooth barely peeking through her gums into the gaping hole of her grin as she pulls a bag of Fritos from the depths of her Pocahontas lunchbox. And now I remember it all, the details bursting forth from some dark corner of my mind like popcorn. And it’s like when you can’t remember the lyrics to a song for the life of you, but then you hear the melody and suddenly the words are rolling off your tongue as if they’ve been sitting there all along just waiting for you to notice them. 

Costia and her Pocahontas lunchbox. 

Her lunchbox was a daily mystery to both of us; a small chest full of exciting surprises, some salty, some sweet, some predestined only for the garbage can. There were the usual fares of any normal six-year-old: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bologna and crackers and floppy slices of American cheese, carrot sticks and apple slices and oreos. But every once in a while Mr. Kane would surprise Costia with something completely exotic and unexpected: a cow-tongue burrito from the taco truck down the street, a salty slab of spam strapped to a block of rice by a strip of seaweed all pieced together behind the deli counter of some Asian market, a mysterious yellow Indian curry that somehow smelled both as wonderful as Christmas and as terrible as my father’s dirty socks. But no matter what Costia found when she opened that box with Pocahontas standing beneath a pink-purple sky, her long black hair flowing behind her like a cape flapping in all the colors of the wind, there was always, always, always a bag of chips. Doritos, Funyuns, or Ruffles... Cheetos, Sunchips, or Barbecue Lays...

And I never understood why, of all the flavors, all the varieties... The Fritos... The plain, old, boring, Fritos were always her favorite.

“Hey...” Clarke’s voice pierces my thoughts and the memories, the images of Costia and her lunchbox, dissolve before me as rapidly as they materialized. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming today.”

Clarke is sitting at our usual table surrounded by empty Ziploc baggies and the scrunched wrapper of a bag of Cheetos, wearing a slightly concerned frown.

“I...” I think of Ontari’s snarls and smirks. I think of Mr. Kane’s small, sad smile. I think of Costia’s toothless grin. “I got held up.”

“Well... I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting.” Clarke whines as I plunk down beside her. But I can see she is fighting the urge to smile. “I have something to ask you.”

She leans towards me with a mischievous glint in her eyes as I sit in silent, confused anticipation.

“What did the green grape...” She pauses to pull a baggy from her jacket pocket and tosses it at my chest. “Say to the purple grape?” 

I watch the lumpy bag of grapes bounce off my chest and roll into my lap, as surprised by its sudden appearance as I am taken aback by the joke that just rolled from Clarke’s lips to bounce off my ears. 

Clarke is no longer fighting her smile. Her grin stretches across her face so wide its corners nearly reach her own ears. She doesn’t give me the slightest chance to consider an answer before she blurts it out for me. 

“Breathe!” She exclaims before bursting into laughter at the stupidity of her own joke. And her laughter is so fierce it soon leaves her breathless. 

“Breathe!” I say between my own laughs as she gasps for air. And, if possible, she only laughs harder. 

And I shake my head at her, feeling the corners of my own lips creeping towards my own ears. And I pop a purple grape into my mouth and let its juice explode across my tongue. Because the sour taste I’ve carried with me since the cafeteria is suddenly gone. It is nothing but a vague memory now, already forgotten.


	15. Preparing for Battle

Chapter 15  
Preparing for Battle  
OR  
The Girl with No Badge, No Stamp, No Ticket, and No Time

CLARKE

 

“Badge.”

Clarke barely registered the clammy fingers clinging to her wrist until their grip on her arm tightened and yanked her backwards with such force she nearly stumbled, her momentum still carrying her feet forward even as her torso twisted at the sharp tug. She had been speed-walking at a clip bordering a jog, her eyes fixed on the gym’s entrance, a wedge of light and noise and busyness framed by heavy double doors. In her hurry, she hadn’t even noticed the woman now standing before her, still grasping her sleeve, wearing a hideous navy-blue blazer and an even uglier frown.

“What?” Clarke asked, blinking in confusion at the woman. 

Why had she stopped her? Couldn’t she see that Clarke was in a hurry? Clarke was breathing hard, a thin layer of sweat collecting beneath her windbreaker. She had already wasted fifteen minutes wandering the wide, seemingly endless hallways of the Convention Center, climbing up and down wide, seemingly endless staircases that inevitably led only to even more wide, seemingly endless hallways. Who knew the Convention Center would be so enormous? Who knew that, in addition to a Tae Kwon Do tournament, the Center would also be hosting a bead fair, a zombiecon, AND a vegan Vegfest? 

Clarke had frantically woven her way through the clusters of women gathered outside the bead fair, chattering like birds, taking turns oohing and awing over each other’s rings of opals and strings of pearls and sparkling beads of colored glass. Three halls and two flights of stairs later, she had almost been swallowed by the horde of ambling zombies queued nicely outside of the zombiecon entrance. She had finally asked directions from a black girl with dreadlocks spilling from her headband and a plastic samurai sword gripped in her fist standing beside a bearded man dressed as a sheriff with a beat-up stetson and a fake shotgun strapped to his back. Both were covered in fake blood and grime. Both had no idea what tournament Clarke was talking about. 

Nor had the woman Clarke had asked three halls, two staircases, and five minutes later. The woman wore a shirt that said “I heart TOFU” above a cartoon of a block of tofu smiling despite the fact that a knife handle protruded like an extra limb from its side. And in the time that it took the woman to apologize to Clarke for having no idea where the tournament was, she had somehow managed to shove a fistful of flyers with titles like ‘Ditch the Dairy’ and ‘Wings are for Flying, not Frying’ into Clarke’s hand. The flyers were still clutched in her fist, growing crumpled and moist in her sweaty palm as Clarke frowned down at the pudgy fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Where’s your badge?” The woman asked her, her voice a mixture of accusatory suspicion and annoyed impatience.

“What?” Clarke asked again, distractedly glancing over her shoulder towards the gym again before looking down at her father’s old watch still ticking away faithfully on her free wrist. Twelve-forty-two. The tournament had started at nine, but Abby hadn’t gotten home from the hospital until ten-thirty. Her phone battery had been at three percent when they left the house and Siri had died somewhere between the exit for the Zoo and the entrance to the tunnel that spat them into the city. Still new to Portland and nearly as drained as her phone after a long shift in the ER, Abby had gotten thoroughly turned around downtown and spent a good twenty minutes driving up and down the city, all the while muttering under her breath about one-way streets and jaywalkers. And Clarke had sat on the edge of the passenger seat growing antsier and antsier as the seconds rushed by.

She had wasted time wandering the city. She had wasted time wandering the Center. And now here she was, finally, finally, finally, only feet from the entrance to the tournament and this woman was holding her back, wasting her time once again. 

“Your badge.” The woman grumbled, annoyed, as if SHE was the one being held against her will; as if CLARKE was the one wasting HER time. She grabbed at a laminated index card dangling from her neck reading ‘Volunteer Staff,’ waving it back and forth in front of Clarke’s face. “Your competitor’s badge.”

“Oh... I don’t have a badge.” Clarke answered. “I’m not competing. Just watching.”

The woman’s narrowed eyes scanned the back of Clarke’s hand as if searching the pattern of her veins and freckles for the answer to some unspoken question. Still she did not release Clarke’s wrist. 

“No stamp.” She muttered. “You have a ticket?”

“A ticket?” Clarke asked, growing more frustrated and flustered by the second. She didn’t have time for this. 

“No badge... No stamp... No ticket...” The woman said, drawing out her words lazily, completely indifferent to Clarke’s urgency. “No entrance.”

“How do I get a ticket?” Clarke asked.

“You buy one.” The woman answered in a tone that suggested she was in no mood for Clarke’s shenanigans. “At the ticket counter... Down the hall.”

“How much do they cost?” Clarke asked. But the question was pointless. She knew she had nothing in her pockets but a dirty nickel she had found on the sidewalk earlier and a crumpled gum wrapper that still smelled faintly of spearmint. In her hurry she had not thought to ask her mother for some money before she had bolted from the car.

“Seven dollars.” The woman answered.

“Seven dollars?” Clarke repeated stupidly. It might as well have been seventy. She eyed the gym entrance longingly. She was so close. The woman holding her was pudgy and soft, not much taller than her, and surely not nearly as quick. Clarke considered yanking her arm free of her, pushing past her, bolting through the doors, and disappearing into the crowds within. But the woman’s beady eyes were fixed on Clarke’s face as if she could read her thoughts and her grip on Clarke’s wrist was surprisingly strong.

“OK.” Clarke sighed, apologetically. “Sorry... I must’ve missed the ticket booth. I’ll go get one.” 

And as the woman finally released her with one last leary glare from her narrowed eyes, Clarke had no choice but to turn her back on the gym’s doors and head back down the hallway in the direction from which she had come. She glanced at her watch as she rounded a corner. Twelve-forty-six. She had wasted too much time already.

She would have to find another way in. 

 

***...***

LEXA

“All females, red or brown, ages eleven through thirteen... Report to the holding area.” The woman’s monotone, almost robotic voice reverberates through the gym, sounding over the ever-present din of cheers from the crowd, the sharp Korean commands of referees shouting to be heard, the distorted cries of fighters yelling through their thick mouthpieces, and the constant thrumming of feet on bleachers, climbing up and down the stairs, taking their owners to the restrooms or the holding area or the concession stand for nachos and a coke.

“That’s you two.” Anya says distractedly as Octavia and I snag our gear bags and push ourselves onto our feet. Already I feel my heartbeat quickening, the adrenaline pumping into my system as if I just downed a RedBull. But my hands are shaky, clammy, heavy at my side. They don’t feel anything like wings. 

“Looks like Lincoln’s group is coming out now.” Anya says, eyeing the doorway in the far corner of the gym through which lines of fighters emerge following a volunteer out of the holding area and onto the floor like nervous ducklings waddling in a row. “Gosh, he’s got some big boys in his group. Why is he always the scrawniest of the lot?” Anya asks, shaking her head. “Oh, and there’s Bell in the group right behind him. I’d better get down there.”

Anya turns towards the two of us, sets one hand on Octavia’s shoulder and her other on mine. Her grip is both soft and firm, meant to quell fear, meant to instill courage. “I’ll see you two on the floor.” Is all she says, and without so much as a reassuring smile, she spins and darts away down the bleachers, weaving through the crowd to find her way to Lincoln’s side.

“Kick butt, you guys.” Raven says with a confident smile, propping her bum leg on the bleacher before her and leaning her elbows back against the one behind. 

Raven looks completely at ease, more comfortable than anyone should ever be on cold, hard, metal bleachers. And for one moment I envy her. Because all morning long the tension has been building inside of me, and right now, precisely on time, the panic has officially arrived. It turns in my stomach, making me as nauseous as a pregnant woman eating pickles and ice-cream on a merry-go-round. It wraps itself like a fist around my heart and lungs until I feel dizzy with just the effort of breathing, the task of staying upright. It creeps its way up my throat, wicking the moisture from my mouth like a dri-fit sock stuffed between my jaws and leaving a metallic taste on my tongue, the taste of fear. Worst of all, it finds its way down to my bladder, pressing against it from all sides like a crisscrossing web of relentless rubber bands, even though I just peed less than twenty minutes ago. 

“Will do, Ray.” Octavia throws Raven a cocky smirk and a thumbs up as she slings the strap of her gear bag across her chest. I feel like I am on the verge of falling apart. But if Octavia is nervous at all, she sure doesn’t show it. 

I sling my own bag’s strap over my head, feeling like I am hefting the weight of the world onto my back, and I am half surprised I am able to shoulder it. 

“Lexa... You coming, or what?” Octavia calls impatiently, already halfway down the bleachers. And I realize with a sudden pang of shame, that I was scanning the crowds around us, searching the faces of countless strangers in search of someone familiar. I notice Raven is staring at me curiously and I know I am blushing under her piercing gaze.

I wonder if she knows I wish my mother was here right now. I wonder if she knows that, even more than my mother, I wish my father were here. And I wonder if she knows, even as I only realize it myself, that I was searching the crowd for a wild blond mane, two blazing blue eyes, and a shy smile. 

“Hey...” Raven reaches out to wrap a finger around my thumb, pulling my hand towards her until my eyes follow. Of course she knows. “I’ll be right here rooting for you, Lexa.” She says in a small voice. And without ever saying the words, she tells me that I am not alone. 

 

***...***

The holding area smells like sweat and fear and is unnervingly quiet after hours of sitting in the gym with the sounds of the tournament playing like background music in a discount store, interrupted every few minutes by the announcer, ‘Attention all competing shoppers, today’s super specials include adult diapers, pepto-bismol, and extra strength deodorant located on aisle six in the holding area! And don’t forget to stop by the pharmacy located at the medic tent for Zantac and Ibuprofen, your perfect pre and post-fight medications.’

Octavia and I stand silently in a mass of other red and brown belt girls as volunteers, looking harried and worn in ugly blue blazers, quickly sort through us and separate us into smaller clusters based on our weights. I’m pulled from Octavia’s side and thrust into a group in the corner along with eight other girls, including Ontari, whose gaze I feel boring into the back of my head like the red laser beam of a sniper’s rifle. 

The volunteer herds us into a line and I plunk down on the scratchy carpet with only two girls separating me from Ontari, a twitchy redhead who keeps nervously playing with her helmet strap, repeatedly undoing and redoing the velcro, and a girl with a mess of wild dark-brown hair who looks more pissed off than nervous. She wears the same uniform as Ontari, a huge NW TKD stitched in blue-gray across her back and I know she must be a part of the Headhunters. But even though they’re teammates, by the cold, rigid, way she’s sitting, I get the feeling this girl hates Ontari just as much as I do.

“Knock it off, Carrot Top...” Ontari spits, fixing her mean, dark eyes on the redhead beside me. “Or I’ll knock your damn helmet off.”

The redhead freezes in the middle of refastening her helmet, quickly dropping her hand to her lap, leaving the strap dangling from her chin like the flappy wattle of a turkey. The girl looks absolutely terrified and I grimace at the satisfied smirk Ontari shoots me. 

“Better gear up, Geek.” She sneers. “I hope you’ve got some duct tape in your bag, ‘cause nothing else is going to keep that ugly-ass helmet on your ugly-ass head.” 

I stare down at my gear, biting my tongue. Save for the new chest protector Anya gave me for my birthday, of course the rest of my gear is a mismatched array of beat-up, second-hand pads. My helmet is a mottled grayish-white, its strap tinged yellow from sweat, the old foam cracked and tearing here and there. Of course all of Ontari’s gear looks brand new, fiercely white, almost shiny, each piece bearing the mountainous three black bars of Adidas.

But I ignore her jeer. Ugly as they are, I wouldn’t trade my pads for hers if she paid me to. My nasty yellow shin guards hug my legs like a favorite pair of jeans. My foot-pads slide over my insteps as perfectly as a trusty old pair of sneakers. I take my time suiting up, feeling the fear drain from me with each strap I secure. And as always, the rest of the world seems to fade as I focus on this task. Suddenly I am not a frightened twelve-year-old girl. I am a warrior strapping on her armor. My nerves calm within me like lake waters settling with the passing of a storm. They haven’t called our group yet, but already I am standing on my feet, my helmet tucked under my arm, my hands still, my legs steady, my resolve strong as a fir tree standing tall and immovable in its forest. The fear has left me. The adrenaline remains. I am ready. 

I am ready for battle.


	16. Glad You Came

Chapter 16  
Glad You Came  
OR  
The Redhead who Falls, the Brunette who Walks Away, and the Blond who Comes Running 

CLARKE

Though she already knew what its face would say, Clarke frowned down at her father’s watch yet again. Another fifteen minutes wasted. She had circled the entire tournament arena, the gym enclosed by a thick wall painted the color of a gloomy day, pockmarked here or there by a smattering of framed bits of hideous, abstract art. All along its perimeter, the muffled sounds of the tournament drifted through the wall, taunting her from the other side. She could hear the crowd cheering, the fighters yelling, and she could not help but wonder if one of those fighters was Lexa. Was she already in the ring? After all of the racing through the busy streets and the endless hallways and the awful staircases, would Clarke miss everything?

No, Clarke thought to herself. It couldn’t be too late. It couldn’t be.

She eyed the volunteer from her position beside the water fountain, the plan taking shape in her mind like a cloud... Present, but not quite solid, vaporous, malleable, and ready to change if the winds shifted. The man was as round as he was short, his belly spilling from the gaps and edges of his blue volunteer’s blazer like melting ice cream. He was slowly working his way through a jumbo dog, relishing each bite as the relish and mustard dribbled down his pudgy fingers. He was guarding the back entrance to the arena, a small door far less frequented than the others.

Clarke was biding her time, lingering by the fountain, taking an occasional sip to avoid suspicion, even though the man, absorbed in the task before him, gnawing on the dog like a cow chewing its cud, seemed not to have even noticed her. Clarke sighed, rapping her foot impatiently against the cold metal base of the fountain. She had already given it three minutes. She would give it one more. Surely someone would come along any second now. Any second now. 

At last they came, a slumped, gray-haired man grasping a Taco Bell bag, trailed by a girl with a nose ring, a pink streak running through her hair, and the quintessential teenage air of unconcealed boredom lingering about her like a cloud of cheap perfume. 

“He sits through all of your plays and drama productions, Amanda.” The man sighed wearily as Clarke slipped silently into step behind them. “The least you could do is PRETEND to be interested in your brother’s fights.

“We’ve been here for four hours.” The girl complained. “And his division hasn’t even been called yet.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” The guard called as they approached, hurriedly rising to his feet and setting the remains of his hot dog on his chair, wiping his fat fingers on the leg of his trousers, leaving greasy streaks of yellow and green on the blue. “No outside food is allowed in the gym.”

“I know.” The man replied apologetically as his daughter just rolled her eyes. “But I was hoping you might make an exception. My son gets real nervous at tournaments and he refuses to eat anything but Taco-”

“Hey!” The guard interrupted the man, swiveling on his heels like a globe with no land, but only blue oceans, as Clarke sped past. “Hey! Young lady! Do you have a badge? Stop!” The man called, already panting from the effort of following Clarke only a few feet down the hall. 

Clarke didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back. The entrance to the gym was right before her, glowing like the end of the proverbial tunnel. And somewhere within, Lexa was preparing to fight. And nothing, certainly not a giant blueberry of a man, was going to keep her from Lexa.

 

***...***

 

LEXA

“Oooohhhh... Ouch!” I groan again, grimacing as the twitchy redhead takes another solid round-kick to the face and the giant blue six on the scoreboard flips into a nine. “That one had to have hurt.”

“Stay focused, Lexa.” Anya whispers. “We’ve still got two matches to get through.” 

Anya’s right. I should be stretching and shaking out my legs. I should be massaging out the lump I already feel forming in the tight space between my shin and its guard. I should be preparing for my next fight. But I can’t pull my eyes from the train wreck before me. And neither can Anya. Just like me, she flinches and grimaces with every thunk of a foot meeting flesh. 

In the ring before us, the redhead is fighting the girl with the wild brown hair and the uniform that matches Ontari’s. Though, really, I shouldn’t say ‘fighting.’ It’s more like she’s serving as target practice for the Headhunter. She is being pulverized, torn-apart, slaughtered, utterly destroyed. They’re only thirty seconds into the second round and the score is already nine... No wait... Make that TEN... To one.

I watch the Headhunter, studying her movements, knowing that (assuming she wins, which short of a natural disaster striking or a miracle taking place in the next five minutes, is a clear given at this point) I will be fighting her in the semi-finals next. I can’t deny it... This girl is a fighter. Her kicks are powerful and swift, fluid and graceful, and for the lack of a better word, downright beautiful. She’s agile, quick, and strong. And, unlike Ontari and the rest of her team, she fights clean. 

“Yes, Luna!” The Headhunter’s coach, a woman with icy blue-gray eyes and a snarl on her face, shouts from her chair, only feet from where Anya and I sit. “Keep pressing in. She’s scared. Finish her.” 

Driven forward by her coach’s words, the Headhunter, Luna, backs the redhead into the corner of the ring with a double-kick, only to follow it with another perfectly timed round-kick to the head. The ten jumps to a thirteen as the redhead falls to her knees on the mat and the referee jumps between the girls, pausing the match to allow her to find her feet again. The redhead looks completely dazed for a moment but somehow manages to push herself back up off of the mats. Her eyes are wide with fear. She looks like she is on the verge of tears.

Luna slides forward, motioning with a half-hearted cut-kick, and her opponent leaps backward, practically cowering against the edge of the ring. She is so terrified, I almost wish the referees would step in and call the match already and put an end to this poor girl’s misery. Luna must notice the tears building in the redhead’s green-gray eyes, because she suddenly backs off, giving her battered opponent a chance to catch her breath.

“Press in, Luna!” Luna’s coach shouts angrily and I feel Master Anya’s posture stiffening beside me. The woman takes no notice of Anya’s glare. “She’s breaking. Take her down!” She commands.

I can see the hesitation in Luna’s eyes. I can see the pity. 

“I said, take her out, Luna!” Her coach repeats.

Luna’s nostrils flare at her coach’s words. Anger rushes through her dark eyes. She presses forward in obedience, spinning on the spot as gracefully as a dancer, as quickly as a figure skater, and plants her instep directly into the center of the redhead’s crimson chest-protector. It’s one of the most beautiful tornado round-kicks I’ve ever seen, and the red-head doubles over, gasping for breath with her hands on her knees. Luna stands at ease, waiting for the girl to rise back into fighting stance.

“What are you waiting for, Luna?” Her coach growls. “Kick her! She’s got her hands down. Take her head off!”

Beside me, Master Anya is shaking her own head in unconcealed disgust.

Luna doesn’t move. She’s frowning at the scoreboard, clearly upset even though she’s now winning by fourteen points. 

“Come on, Red!” Master Anya calls out encouragingly to the redhead. She’s still struggling to pull the air in. I can see the tears clearly streaming down her sweaty face now. It’s painful to watch. “Twenty seconds... You can do it!” 

The redhead straightens and pulls her fists back into the air. But, between having the wind knocked out of her and the snot now running freely from her nostrils, she’s now full-blown wheezing like a kid with asthma in the middle of a fireworks show on the Fourth of July. She’s barely holding herself together. Luna bites at her lip with the edge of her mouth-guard as she pulls her own fists back up and resumes fighting stance. She is winning. Winning, winning, winning. But I swear she looks even more miserable than the redhead.

She hops lazily, motioning and moving back and forth and sideways. But she doesn’t attack. 

“Kick her, Luna!” Her coach shouts. “What the hell’s a matter with you? She’s wide open!”

Luna’s jaw wriggles. Her fists clench even more tightly. Her nostrils flare again. But still, she doesn’t advance. And the time on the clock marches steadily down as the girls hop the seconds away.

“Kalyeo!” The referee shouts as the clock hits zero, leaping between the girls to stop them and sending them back to their coaches.

“What the hell do you think you are doing, Luna?” Luna’s coach asks her as Luna sips from her water bottle. “I don’t care if you are winning by two points or twenty... We don’t go easy on the competition... Ever.”

“She couldn’t breathe, Master Nia.” Luna mumbles, fidgeting with her shin pad and avoiding her coach’s angry, cold glare. 

“Look at me, Luna!” The coach snarls, snagging the strap of her fighter’s chest-protector and giving her a sharp jerk forward so that Luna raises her eyes. Beside me, Master Anya springs to her feet and for one wild second I think she is about to step in between Luna and her coach. She pauses, watching the scene with her fists clenched as tightly as her jaw. The woman pays her no mind.

“I don’t care if she can breathe or not...” Master Nia snarls. “That girl drops her hands like that again, you take her damn head off. Do you understand?”

Luna just stares, her lips pulled into the thinnest of lines. Behind her, the referee has stepped back into the center of the ring. 

“Chung... Hong.” He calls, signaling for the fighters, blue and red, to step back into the ring for their final round. 

“Goddammit, Luna.” The coach spits. “Do you understand me?”

Still, Luna just stares.

“Chung...” The center referee repeats, calling again for blue. But Luna doesn’t turn. She makes no move to enter the ring.

“No.” She finally says, her voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I don’t understand you, Master Nia. I don’t understand you at all.”

Luna pulls off her helmet, tucks it under her arm, and calmly begins to walk AWAY from the ring.

“Where the hell are you going, Luna?” Master Nia shouts. “You still have another round. You still have the finals! Get your ass back in the ring!”

“I’m done.” Is all Luna says, ducking between the makeshift rails that separate the audience from the competitors’ floor. And just like that the readhead gets her miracle and wins the match by default. 

Master Anya plunks back down onto the floor beside me, still wearing a disgusted frown. She shakes her head and then pulls her attention back to me, struggling to push her anger aside. “OK, Lexa... We should be up again next. Shake your legs out. How you feeling?”

Before I can answer, the center referee appears above us.

“Alexandria Woods?” He asks.

“Yes.” I confirm.

“Your opponent has elected to bow out of the semi-finals.” He says, motioning vaguely to the redhead who is still sobbing on the opposite side of the ring, her coach’s arm draped awkwardly over her shoulders in an attempt to calm her. “Which means you’ll be progressing directly to finals. You’ll be fighting in blue. You have two minutes.”

“Yes, Sir.” I reply, already tugging at the straps of my chest-protector. 

“Alright, Kiddo. This is it... Showtime.” Master Anya says, helping me tug my hogu off and flip it around to the blue side. “One more match and then we can all go celebrate.”

“Thirty seconds, Blue.” The referee warns me as Master Anya slaps her palm against my side, signaling that my chest-protector is good to go. I pull my helmet on, shove my mouthpiece in, and cross the short distance to the edge of the ring where Anya is already seated in her coach’s chair. I can see Ontari strapping her own helmet closed across the mats from me. She flashes me a wicked smirk. I know she means to intimidate me. But I am not scared anymore. I am ready.

“Hey... Lexa!” A small voice calls from behind me. I swivel to see pink cheeks and wild blond hair and blazing blue eyes rushing towards me from the barrier. 

Clarke...

Clarke has come.

Clarke stops before me, panting hard, sweating as if SHE is the one who’s just fought two hard matches. A volunteer, looking harried and harassed, stops just behind her. “Hey kid...” He huffs. “I already told you, the floor is for volunteers, competitors, and coaches only. Spectators have to stay on the opposite side of the barrier.”

Clarke ignores the man, her bright eyes fixed on me. “I just...” She pants. “Wanted to say... Good luck.”

“Chung... Hong!” I hear the center referee summon me.

“Let’s go, Lexa.” Master Anya calls.

I ignore them both. “I’m glad you came.” I grin.

“Me too.” Clarke grins back, even as the volunteer tugs at her wrist and pulls her away from me.

“Chung!” The referee calls, and I turn and move forward, still grinning as I step into the ring.

 

I cross the mats to where Ontari and the center referee await, feeling like a gladiator entering the arena. Ontari glares at me, still wearing her ugly smirk, and I meet her eye to eye.

“Charyut!” The referee commands and I smack my palms against my sides in attention.

“Kyung nae!” Ontari and I both bow, never taking our eyes off of each other.

“Joonbi!” I raise my fists and split my stance, my knees bent, my weight perched on the balls of my feet. I am ready. Ready. Ready. Ready.

“Seijak!” The referee raises his hand like a director calling ‘action,’ and just like that, everything begins.


	17. States: Round 1... Fight!

Chapter 17  
States: Round 1... Fight!  
OR  
Up in the Peanut Gallery

CLARKE

“Oh jeez! That was close!” Clarke exclaimed as Ontari’s toenails brushed the edge of Lexa’s blue chest-protector like a hand dangling from a boat and skimming the surface of a lake. “Crap, Ontari’s fast.”

“Don’t worry.” Raven replied. “Lexa’s faster. She’s just getting warmed up. It always takes her a minute to get into her groove. Watch... She’s totally got this.”

As if in response to her words, Lexa suddenly sprung forward with a fast-kick followed by a double-kick, driving Ontari into a corner as the blue zero on the scoreboard flashed into a one.

“See?” Raven cheered. “I told you Lexa’s faster!”

Ontari and Lexa clinched into the corner, shoving against each other like brothers battling over the last piece of pizza. Ontari tried to swivel Lexa and maneuver her into the corner instead, but Lexa pulled out of the clinch with a defensive round kick that thudded into Ontari’s red circle like an arrow burrowing into a bulls-eye. Clarke’s eyes flickered to the scoreboard, but the one remained a one.

“Aww... Come on!” Lincoln protested, throwing his hands into the air and then letting them drop against his knees with a smack. “That was totally a point. That pada chagi was solid!”

Below them, the fighters reset, Lexa and Ontari eyeing each other warily, each analyzing every little movement of the other while they hopped forwards and backwards and sideways, motioning as if testing the waters. Then, in a flash of movement, Ontari exploded, her back foot springing from the mats as if released by a giant slingshot and smacking into Lexa’s helmet hard with an audible ‘thwack’ that rang through the bleachers. Lexa reeled, swayed, and dropped as Ontari charged again, and for an instant Clarke’s heart stopped. Ontari was about to finish Lexa while she was on her knees.

“Kalyeo!” The center referee shouted, throwing his body in front of Ontari before her feet could find Lexa’s face again. 

“Hey! Give her a kyong go, ref!” Raven hollered from their spot in the stands, as if the referee could actually hear her; as if he might care to consider the ‘expert’ advice of a precocious twelve-year-old who had never stepped foot into a ring. 

“Yeah, ref! Give her a kyong go!” Clarke echoed her, cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify the sound, though she knew it made no difference. Like Raven’s before her, Clarke’s voice was swallowed into the senseless din of the crowd. She dropped her hands back into her lap and lowered her voice. “What’s a kyong go again?”

“Half-point penalty.” Raven answered distractedly as they watched the red zero morph into a three. “You’re not allowed to attack your opponent when they’re on the ground.”

“Not even a warning... Figures.” Lincoln huffed. “Bunch of bull.”

“That was a hard hit.” Raven stated the obvious. “I hope it didn’t rattle her.” She lowered her voice, speaking like a sinner praying for salvation. “Come on, Lexa. Get up. Make her pay for that.”

Again Clarke had the feeling Lexa could somehow sense Raven’s words, as if the friends were connected by telepathy. In obedience, Lexa pushed herself back onto her feet, straightened her helmet, and gave her head a shake to clear it. She and Ontari resumed their fighting stances and Lexa barely waited for the referee’s rising arm to clear the space between them before she charged.

Ontari stumbled backwards from the jab of Lexa’s cut-kick, and Lexa didn’t give her even the fraction of a second to regain her balance. She lifted her leg through the air like a lumberjack swinging a hatchet and brought her heel smashing downwards into the center of Ontari’s snarling face. Blood erupted from Ontari’s nostrils, streaking down her face and onto her hogu, shimmering an ever deeper crimson than its targets.

“Yes, Lexa! Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” Raven whooped as Lincoln and Clarke both shot to their feet, their fists pumping into the air wildly in celebration. Below them, the referee had paused the match again, signaling for a medic as Ontari’s coach tilted her head back in a fruitless attempt to quell the flow of blood. Clarke’s stomach turned slightly at the sight of the coach’s shiny bald head and ugly sneer... Master Titus.

“Ontari gets one minute to stop the bleeding.” Raven explained to Clarke. “If they can’t staunch it, she’ll be forced to forfeit. Wow...” She breathed. “Only one minute in and it’s four to three. What a match. What a match!” 

“Did you guys see that axe-kick?!” Lincoln asked, his chocolate brown eyes wide with excitement. “It was epic!”

“It was more than epic.” Raven answered. “It was magnificent. Of course we saw it, Lincoln.”

“Yeah, well... Ontari sure didn’t.” Licoln snickered. “Holy crappers... I’m glad Lexa’s never thrown that axe-kick at ME. I should probably make more of an effort not to piss her off, at least not on sparring nights.”

“Yeah, probably.” Raven agreed. “Unless you want a free, albeit unconventional, rhinoplasty.”

“A what?” Lincoln asked, confused.

“Don’t worry about it, Lincoln.” Raven laughed. “Doesn’t matter how irate Lexa is, she would never kick one of her friends like that. You know she takes it easy on all of you at practice.”

“What?” Lincoln scoffed. “She doesn’t take it easy on ME.”

“She most certainly does.” Raven answered. “Maybe if she kicked your butt around the gym a little more often, you wouldn’t get it kicked so frequently in the actual ring.”

“Hey!” Lincoln protested. “I didn’t get my butt kic-” He paused mid-syllable, shrinking under Raven’s disbelieving stare. “OK... I got my butt kicked.” He confessed. “But did you see my opponent? He was huge! I swear he somehow must have tricked the officials at weigh-ins. And I think he lied about his age too... No way was that kid is only thirteen. And, hey... At least I scored a few points this time.” He laughed.

“That’s true.” Raven chuckled. “It wasn’t a complete shut-out this time.”

“Hey... Not that I’m worried about it or anything...” Lincoln muttered, running a hand over his buzzed hair nervously. “But... Did Octavia see my fight?”

“No.” Raven answered distractedly, pulling her eyes back to the floor below where the medic was packing her first aid kit back up and pulling her latex gloves off. “She was in the holding area.”

“Oh.... OK.” Lincoln answered, looking relieved. “Well... If she asks... It was a close match, OK? I just barely lost, alright?”

Raven didn’t bother to answer. “Damn... It looks like they’re letting her continue.”

Ontari had stepped back into the ring, a wad of cotton protruding from one nostril like a miniature tampon. She looked ridiculous. But more than anything else, she looked furious.

“Ontari looks pissed as hell.” Lincoln commented. “Lexa better keep her hands up.”

“She’s got twenty seconds until break.” Raven said. “She can hold her off for twenty seconds. No problem.”

Lexa and Ontari squared off and the referee raised his arm yet again. This time Ontari was the one charging forward, a red blur of pure rage and unadulterated aggression. But Lexa was ready. She side-stepped Ontari’s flurry of round-kicks and countered with her own defensive round-kick. 

“Aww... Come on, refs!” Lincoln shouted again. “Where’s the point?!” He lowered his voice to a grumble. “They’re not scoring her pada chagis.”

“It’s OK.” Raven mumbled. “She’s still in the lead. Ten seconds, Lexa. You got this.”

Clarke watched the clock counting down at the center of the scoreboard, too nervous to breathe. The adrenaline was pumping through her system so fiercely she felt like she were right there in the ring with Lexa. Ten seconds... Nine... Eight. Lexa and Ontari were circling each other, each apparently waiting for the seconds to expire, each clearly watching for the other’s attack. 

Five seconds... Four seconds... Three. The round was ending. But Ontari wasn’t finished. In the next moment, several things happened all at once. Ontari slid forward with a sudden fast-kick as the numbers on the clock flashed to triple zeroes. Lexa jammed the kick, moving into the clinch even as the referee called ‘Kaleyo,’ dashing forward to separate the fighters. But he was too late. As Lexa jammed Ontari’s kick, Ontari’s fist pummeled directly into her throat.

“Hey!” Raven, Clarke, Lincoln, and Master Anya all shouted simultaneously. The punch was blatant. So was Master Anya’s anger. She rose in her chair as Lexa collapsed to her knees, clutching at her throat. 

The referee stepped in front of Ontari, extended his pointer finger and shot his hand towards the heavens as if pointing out a UFO, and Lexa’s blue four turned into a five. Ontari gave the referee a small bow and then sauntered over to Master Titus, a smug smirk playing on her face all the while.

“A gam jeum?” Raven huffed. “A lousy one point penalty? That’s it? Ontari ought to be disqualified! She pulled this crap last year too. And this time she didn’t even TRY to make it look accidental! Everyone knows the Headhunters are all a bunch of dirty cheaters, but they could at least have the courtesy to not be so conspicuous in their flagrant disregard for rules and general sportsmanship.” 

“Ontari’s not the only one on their team who cheats?” Clarke asked.

“Are you kidding?” Lincoln laughed bitterly. “Their whole team is a bunch of cheating, sore-losers. Ontari... Roan... Echo... That blue-belt kid with the lazy eye... Master Baldy teaches them all every trick he used to win his way to the Olympics. That’s how Roan beat Bellamy today.”

“What?” Clarke asked. “Roan beat Bellamy? What happened?”

“Bellamy was up by two points in the final round.” Lincoln answered. “Roan kept going for the three-point head shot, but Bell had his hands up. We thought for sure he had the match bagged. But then they went into a clinch and when the ref pulled them apart, Bell’s nose was gushing blood everywhere.”

“Roan kicked him in the face?” Clarke asked.

“No.” Raven answered. “He didn’t throw a single kick. No one saw how it happened. Even Bellamy wasn’t exactly sure what occurred. He thinks Roan rammed his shoulder into his face during the confusion of the clinch. It was subtle... Brilliant really. No one could blame Roan because no one had witnessed him breaking any rules.”

“They couldn’t get the blood to stop. He was bleeding everywhere.” Lincoln said. “It was pretty gnarly.” He added, his voice a mixture of disgust and awe. 

“Thus, Bellamy was forced to forfeit the match.” Raven said with a sad shake of her head. “With less than a minute on the clock; less than a minute separating him from victory. It was his first match, so he didn’t even place. Roan took the gold. And Bellamy’s creamed the silver medalist multiple times in past tournaments. He would’ve pulverized him if he had been given the chance.” She sighed. “If you don’t medal at States, you aren’t eligible to compete at Juniors. I think he’s pretty devastated.” She finished, pointing discretely at the bleachers above and behind them.

Clarke turned to see Bellamy sitting on the uppermost bench, his head buried in his hands, entirely alone save for one person. Octavia was perched beside him, one arm draped across his shoulders, her head bent low along with his as if speaking softly to him. It was a strange sight to witness. Clarke had only ever seen the two of them fighting and bickering and arguing, shoving each other and teasing each other and blaming each other for everything under the big, blazing sun. But she supposed, when you stripped everything away down to the core of it, Bellamy and Octavia were, first and foremost, siblings... Twins sharing a bond Clarke had never known or could ever fully understand as an only child. No matter how irritating or maddeningly frustrating the siblings usually found each other... No matter how many marked differences they shared... Bellamy and Octavia always had one thing in common: their last name. And the truth was that, when push came to shove, the Blake siblings always had each other’s backs.

“How did Octavia do?” Clarke asked. “Did Echo cheat too?”

“Oh, she cheated alright.” Lincoln said. “Kept falling down when Octavia tried to kick her. Kept kicking Octavia low. Kept running out of the ring... But it didn’t matter in the end.” He laughed. “You know how I said Lexa’s axe-kick was epic? Well this story is EPIC, epic.” He grinned.

“Ten seconds until round two commences.” Raven announced, staring down at Lexa’s ring. The center referee had reclaimed his spot in the middle of the mats. He would signal for Lexa and Ontari any second now.

“I’ll tell it fast.” Lincoln promised. “Though, really it probably deserves a full reenactment later on.” He chuckled. “So... It’s round three and O’s down by two with only fifteen seconds on the clock. She needs a head-shot to pull this match out of her butt and she’s pretty much desperate at this point. But friggin’ Echo keeps running out of the ring. So what does O do? Get this... She runs... Like, legit RUNS... Across the mats and flying side-kicks Echo’s head. Flying side-kicks!” He laughs again. “Echo tries to duck, but O’s foot catches the top of her helmet and the whole thing goes flying off her head and lands smack-dab in the middle of one of the corner judge’s laps. It was hilarious! I wish I’d gotten it on camera! It was...”

“Shut-up, Lincoln.” Raven cut him off. “It’s starting.”

“It was epic.” Lincoln whispered with another chuckle. “Like I said... We’ll reenact it for you later.” Lincoln promised. 

But Clarke wasn’t listening. On the floor below, Lexa had stepped back into the ring. And just like that, Clarke’s racing heart was back in her throat.

“Don’t worry, Clarke.” Raven spoke as Clarke clamped her teeth down onto the edge of her thumbnail. “Lexa’s got this. Have some faith.”

Clarke knew Raven was never wrong. And yet Clarke had always found worry a whole lot easier to come by than faith. Still... As Lexa bowed and raised her fists, suddenly Clarke was the one chanting under her breath like a nun kneeling in a pew, clutching a string of beads in her fist like hope solidified. 

“Come on, Lexa. You got this.” She whispered into the void between the earth and the heavens. “We got this... We got this.”


	18. States: Round 2... Fight!

Chapter 18  
States: Round 2... Fight!  
OR  
Again... Anger Makes You Stupid (Master Anya’s Heel Said So. Lexa’s Heel Concurs)

LEXA

I should expect it... I should see it coming... But I don’t. Ontari’s fist smashes into my Adam’s apple with the force of one-hundred-and-ten pounds of pure hatred behind it and my throat constricts faster than a pupil assaulted by a flashing disco ball of LED lights. I fall to my knees, clutching my throat, surrounded by air, yet unable to breathe. Ontari stands over me, staring at me with her ugly, crooked smirk even as the referee issues her gam jeum and I am rewarded a free point. She’s still smirking as the referee directs us back to our chairs. I have one minute; one minute to breathe. 

“Breathe, Lexa.” Master Anya commands, as if I need to be told, and if I wasn’t struggling just to find enough oxygen to keep me upright, I would roll my eyes at her words. “Breathe.”

She hands me my water bottle, but I shake my head. I can barely get the air down my throat. There’s no way I’m getting water down.

“You’ve got her flustered, Lexa.” Anya says. “She’s cheating because she’s scared she’s going to lose otherwise. That axe-kick was absolutely beautiful, and she knows it. Your winning, fair and square... And she knows that too.”

Anya puts her hands on my shoulders and leans in. “You’re a better fighter than her, Lexa.” She says. “And she knows THAT too. And she’s frightened. And she’s ANGRY. You can see it on her face... She wants revenge for that axe-kick. She’ll be coming for your head. So keep your hands up. Keep kicking, and whatever you do... Don’t let your guard drop. Got it?”

I try to respond, but my throat is still so tight I wonder if I’ll ever be able to form audible words again. I just nod my head instead.

“She’s going to come fast and strong, Lexa.” Anya warns. “But you remember what I told you about fighting angry?”

I think back to the night I chased Master Anya around and around the mats, throwing kick after kick, the anger coursing through me thicker than adrenaline. I think of Master Anya’s perfectly timed spinning hook-kick. I can still feel her heel dragging against my lips, taste the nastiness of sweat and grime on my tongue.

“Anger...” I finally choke out. “Makes you stupid.”

“That’s right.” Anya says, giving my shoulder a tight squeeze. “Keep your own mind clear. She’ll make mistakes. All you have to do is capitalize on them. Let her throw her own match away.”

“Chung! Hong!” I hear the center referee call out behind me.

“Keep it clear.” Anya says one more time, patting the side of my helmet twice before nodding her head towards the ring. “Go get it, kiddo.”

 

I step back into the ring, feeling the pain drain from my throat with every step I take as I focus my mind. I know the pain is still there, but now it is something distant, as unimportant as the peripheral, hazy blur of the crowds moving in the bleachers surrounding us or the muffled dissonance of cheers and boos, lazy conversations and bored yawns. 

“Joombi!” The center referee calls out. And I split my stance. And I raise my fists. And everything else falls away except for one thing: the girl in crimson snarling at me.

“Seijak!” The referee shouts and we begin our violent dance again.

Master Anya was right. Ontari is angry. And she wastes no time. She comes at me immediately, all strength and fury, fast and strong... And STUPID... just as Master Anya said.

I think back to that night again. Master Anya’s words echo in my mind as clearly as if she is sitting beside me in our gym, propped against the mirrors, playing with the flaps of her belt as I struggle to catch my breath. ‘You rush into attacks without planning them. Your narrowed eyes tell me exactly what you are about to do before you even realize you’ve decided to do it. You abandon your footwork and you leave your defenses wide open.’

Again, she was absolutely right. I can see every attack Ontari is about to throw before she even lifts her toes from the mat. She is rushing at me, not bothering to fake or plan or set anything up. And her defenses are wide open. 

I dodge kick after kick, weaving in and out and to the side just as Anya had done with me. And with every missed kick, I can see the fury burning brighter and brighter in Ontari’s dark eyes. Her defenses are open. But I am patient. I am waiting for just the right moment.

And then the moment comes as clearly as a train blazing into the station with bells and whistles and a giant flashing neon sign announcing its arrival. Ontari’s made a mistake. And all I have to do is capitalize on it. 

Ontari’s leg is still cocked high in the air when I spin, her balance already compromised. I could simply nick her and she’d topple over. But I don’t nick her... I pummel her. My heel bashes into the side of her helmet. The bottom of my foot drags across her mouth.

Foot and face meet with the force of planets colliding, continental plates shifting, atomic bombs blowing craters into the earth, waves breaking on rock. And Ontari collapses to the mats like a puppet with its strings cut. 

The referee drops to his knees beside her, signaling for a medic. And I am so surprised by what just happened, the force of the kick I had not even planned on throwing, that I drop to my own knees, unsure of how to feel. Elation and guilt battle inside me as fiercely as two fighters in their own fleshy ring. Ontari is still laying face down on the mats, completely limp.

Then suddenly, she opens her eyes and pulls her arms under her, trying to push herself up off of the mats. Somehow she finds her way back onto her feet. And I rise along with her. She raises her fists, but she is still swaying unsteadily on the spot as if we are all standing on a boat on a stormy sea and she is the only one who has noticed the rocking. The referee stands before her and lifts his right fist to the space just above his heart. 

“Hana!” He counts, extending one finger along with his arm, before returning it to his chest. “Dul...” He repeats the motion, extending another finger.

Ontari isn’t glaring at me anymore. Just like me, she’s watching the referee’s fingers spring from his fist, only her dark eyes are glazed and unfocused. She’s still teetering like a tree swaying in an invisible breeze.

Ten seconds... An eternity... and then... 

“Yul!” The referee says as he runs out of fingers. And suddenly his fingers are wrapped around my wrist. “Chung Seung!” He announces, lifting my arm into the air as Ontari plunks back down onto the mats. And just like that, the match ends. 

The referee releases my arm and it falls limply to my side. I am absolutely dazed, as shocked as if my own brain just got slammed against the side of my skull.

I lean over Ontari and extend a hand. “Good fight.” I say. But she doesn’t take it. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at me. 

I make my way across the ring to shake hands with Ontari’s coach. It’s protocol. It’s sportsmanship. It’s respect. But when I stick my hand out, Master Titus only glares at it. He turns his back on me... He turns his back on Ontari... And walks away. 

Anya rushes to meet me as I cross the mats again. Grinning, she wraps a bicep around my neck, pulling me into a half-nelson like an older brother about to dig his fist into my scalp. “Really, Lexa? A spinning-hook-kick?” She laughs. “Just where did you learn THAT, kiddo? Just where did you learn THAT?”

I think of all the times Master Anya’s dirty, callused feet have dragged across my lips; every perfectly controlled spinning-hook that should have sent me reeling, but was only ever meant to get me thinking. 

“I don’t know.” I tease. “No idea.”

“None whatsoever, huh?” She laughs. “Well, whoever taught you THAT deserves an award.”

She pulls the sweaty, stinky mess of me into her. “Speaking of awards...” She says. “Come on... Let’s go get your medal, kiddo.” 

 

***...***

CLARKE

“A TKO?!” Raven exclaimed, unable to believe her own words. “Did Lexa really just win by technical knock out? In the second round? Am I delusional? Am I hallucinating? Or did that really just happen?”

“Holy cow turds!” Was Lincoln’s response. “Forget the axe-kick... Forget Octavia’s flying-side-kick... THAT... THAT was epic! Ontari’s gonna be crying herself to sleep tonight.”

“I knew Lexa would beat her.” Raven breathed. “I knew it. But with a TKO? I’ve never actually seen anyone finish a match with a TKO before.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say. She was still in shock, the adrenaline still pumping through her veins. Lexa’s kick had been beautiful. More than beautiful... Magnificent... Glorious... (Like Lincoln said) EPIC. Watching her throw that kick was like watching an eagle take flight or a horse galloping through a field or a wolf weaving silently through the trees as much a part of the darkness as a part of the forest. Lexa in the ring was like a wild animal in its element... A thing of beauty... A thing of power and grace... A thing of wonder.

“I wish I could fight like that!” Clarke said. 

Raven looked at her, her grin fading as she pulled her lips to one side. “You’re only a white belt, Griffin.” She said. “Keep training and maybe someday you will.”

Raven’s words were kind and encouraging. And yet, Clarke could not help but notice the lilt of bitterness in her voice. Raven was staring down at the leg sticking out before her, propped on the bleachers, her foot protruding from her ankle at an odd angle. Clarke didn’t have to ask. She knew what Raven was thinking. Raven wished she could fight like Lexa too. But unlike Clarke, Raven couldn’t train. There was no ‘someday’ for Raven.

But Clarke also knew it didn’t have to be that way.

“You know... Raven.” She said. “My mother’s an orthopedic surgeon... A doctor who-”

“I know what an orthopedic surgeon is, Clarke.” Raven shot, the bitterness in her voice growing.

“Right...” Clarke mumbled. “Well... She was one of the top orthopedic surgeons in her old hospital back in L.A.. She fixed babies with club feet all the time.”

“Wow.” Raven replied, her voice flat. Behind her, Lincoln started waving his hands at Clarke, his eyes absurdly wide. “That’s great for your mother...” Raven continued. “I’m sure that’s a VERY lucrative career.”

Clarke frowned at Lincoln, momentarily distracted by his flailing. He was now shaking his head, waving his fingers side to side at the base of his throat like an anchorman frantically signaling for the cameraman to cut the live-feed. Noticing Clarke’s distraction, Raven turned her head to see what had pulled Clarke’s attention and Lincoln immediately dropped his arms.

“Ooooh... Look.” He said, reaching for the crumpled flyers that the crazy vegan lady had shoved into Clarke’s hands earlier. In the excitement of Lexa’s fight, Clarke had deposited them unceremoniously on the bleachers without giving them a single glance and had instantly forgotten about them. “A brochure about milk. I love milk!” He exclaimed with just a little too much enthusiasm. “Cheese, yogurt, ice-cream...” He rambled nervously. “Hmm... Ditch the Dairy...” He read aloud, burying his nose behind the flyer.

Raven scowled and shook her head, turning back towards Clarke.

Maybe Lincoln was right. Maybe Clarke should bite her tongue and let it go. But Raven had been stuck in the bleachers for years, watching her friends fight, knowing she’d never get the chance to step into the ring and find the limits of her strength and of her courage; knowing she’d never get to wear the gold or silver or bronze around her neck; she’d never even get to wear the competitor’s badge around her neck.

It wasn’t fair. Raven deserved better. She deserved the chance to learn how to fight just as much as Clarke did. And if Clarke held her tongue now, Raven would forever be just another spectator, looking on from the bleachers.

“It’s not about making money.” Clarke said. “My mom loves helping people. She could help you. What I mean to say is, she can fix anyone... She can fix YOU.”

Raven glared at Clarke. Her eyes were misting, but her nostrils were flared, her jaw clenched in anger.

“Who ever said I was broken?” She asked. And with that, she pushed herself to her feet and limped away, climbing the stairs one-by-one until she reached the top where Octavia and Bellamy waited to greet her.

“Raven’s a bit touchy when it comes to her club foot.” Lincoln explained as Clarke watched Raven go. “She wasn’t born in a hospital. Her mom... Well...” He paused, rubbing awkwardly at his fuzzy scalp again. “Let’s just say she was missing a document or two.” He continued. “And the Mexican midwife who delivered Raven sure as hell didn’t know how to fix a club foot. Raven’s mom has been saving up money for the operation for years. But the older she gets...”

“The more severe the damage...” Clarke filled in for him. She knew enough from her mother to know club feet were best dealt with immediately.

“The more expensive the surgery.” Lincoln finished for her. “It sucks... I know. But Raven’s pretty much accepted the fact that she’s going to be stuck with it forever.” He sighed, dropping his eyes back to the flyer in his fist. “Did you know factory-farm dairy farmers take baby cows away from their mothers when they’re only a day old?” He asked, grimacing. “This is horrible.”

Clarke didn’t know a thing about dairy farming procedures. But she did know what it was like to accept the harsh realities of life and fear that some things will never get better. She looked up at Raven laughing with Bellamy and Octavia as if nothing was wrong. Clarke knew what it was like to pretend you’re not hurting... To pretend you’re not broken. 

“Yeah... Horrible.” She muttered. 

Lincoln didn’t look up, completely engrossed in his reading, as Clarke pushed herself to her feet and spoke to no one. 

“I’m going to go find Lexa.”


	19. Together

Chapter 19  
Together  
OR  
Mess with Her and You Mess with Me and My Perfect Palm Strike

LEXA

I know I’m still grinning like a fool as I pry my sweaty, beat-up shin pad from my sweaty, beat-up leg. My medal swings out from my chest and dangles before me as I bend to inspect the damage. Already there’s a purple lump rising below my knee like the butt of a mushy eggplant sprouting straight out of my shin. Master Anya calls these ‘goose eggs,’ and though I have no idea what an actual goose egg looks like, I know by tomorrow this one will be the size of a golf ball and it will throb like hell. And I know that if she catches a glimpse of it, Anya will smile down at it with a mixture of pride and amusement, and if I don’t pull my leg away in time, she’ll jab a finger into its center, the sweet, soft spot and laugh as I shriek in pain.

I find the sweet spot now and give it a tentative push, but with the endorphins still pulsing through my blood, the pain barely registers. And I know I will probably discover more bruises tonight, purplish-red and greenish-yellow and blackish-blue, coloring random parts of my body like splattered paintballs staining my skin. But right now I feel good, real good. My body feels both exhausted and exhilarated, my limbs both heavy and unbelievably light. I want to lie down in silence. I want to climb onto the roof of the building and dance and sing and shout out into the noise of the city and let my laughter fall over the streets below like a flurry of snowflakes.

But before I can do anything, I have to get out of this stinky, sweaty gear, and this stinky, sweaty uniform. I hear the creak of the locker room door swinging on its tired hinges then thudding closed behind someone as I reach for the strap of my second shin pad. And I think nothing of the footsteps behind me until a heel crashes into my lower back and I find myself toppling forward like a tree cut at its roots. I throw my hands out before me, but they are utterly too late. And before I can even register what is happening, my forehead slams into the solid wooden bench before me, its edge so sharp it might as well be made of steel. And no amount of endorphins can quell the pain that erupts across my eyebrow as the rest of my body crumples to the floor.

I push myself onto my hands and knees in confusion, instinctively reaching my palm towards the pain, and my fingertips meet wetness and warmth. But I don’t have time to inspect my bloody fingers. I don’t even have time to swivel my head to identify my attacker or try to apply some sort of defense. I don’t have time to do anything but take one last breath as the band around my neck suddenly yanks my head backwards, growing taut around my throat until I cannot breathe. I feel the cold metal of my medal bite into my throat in the exact tender spot where Ontari punched me only so many minutes ago.

“You’re wearing MY medal, Geek.” Ontari growls from behind me, pulling harder on the medal’s band until I’m forced to rock backwards onto my knees, feeling the edge of the bench behind me cutting into my spine as I bend like a gymnast who just stuck her landing. My fingers grope for the band around my neck, they pull at the medal, leaving streaks of blood on its glossy surface. But it’s no use. The band is so tight, the edges of its fabric are digging into my skin. I can’t get a proper hold on it. And I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

“It’s mine and I’m taking it.” Ontari hisses. “And there’s no referee here to stop me. No one to make me play nice.”

Suddenly the tightness of the band relents and, even as a sharp shove between my shoulder blades sends me lurching forward back onto my hands, I suck in a raspy breath, the stale locker room air tasting as sweet as a summer breeze. 

“Let’s see how you hold up in a REAL fight, Geek.” Ontari snarls as her fingers wrap tightly around my arm, tugging me upwards. And over her snarl neither of us hear the creak of the door or the thud or the soft padding of sneakers on tile. But the voice that cuts the air as Ontari drags me to my feet is cold and sharp enough to freeze the both of us in place.

“Hey! Mess with her and you mess with ME.” 

Ontari’s fingers still dig into my bicep, but her eyes, like mine, are on Clarke’s. And Clarke’s eyes are on fire, ablaze with a dangerous heat like the hot, blue center of a flame. She is standing mere feet from us, her hands clenched into fists at her side, her nostrils flared, her lips and jaw tight, her cheeks growing redder by the millisecond as if the fire in her eyes is spreading. 

Standing before us is the girl I first met that fateful day on the playground; the girl with the growl of a wildcat; the girl with the fight inside of her.

And just like the first time I laid eyes on her, I forget about Ontari. I forget about everything else. And I just stare at her, blinking stupidly. Because, even in her ferocity, she is still the prettiest girl I have ever seen.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Ontari laughs beside me, and my trance is suddenly broken as she releases my arm and takes a step closer to Clarke. “Or a joke? Because either way it’s funny.”

“Look...” Ontari says when Clarke just glares at her in irate silence. “I’m gonna give you five seconds to turn around and run away like a good little geek before you force me to kick YOUR ass too. Because, make no mistake... I WILL kick your ass again, even though its not even that much fun to beat your ass down. I mean... At least with Lexa I get a little bit of a challenge. Fighting you is like beating up a kindergartner. But if you insist...”

“Five.” Ontari holds her hand out lazily before her, smirking. She pulls her thumb in. “Four...”

I won’t let her get to zero. I feel my own fists clench at my sides as she pulls in her pinky. And I’m about to lunge for her as she says “Three.” 

But before I can close the distance between us, Ontari has already jumped the gun. She moves away from me, into Clarke’s space, her right fist hooking in an arc aimed directly for Clarke’s jaw. And I’m sure Clarke will be spitting out bloody teeth before I can do anything to stop this. 

But before knuckles meet flesh, even as Ontari invades her space, Clarke is stepping forward to meet the attack. She moves within the range of the hook, her left arm flying up to deflect the blow even as her right hand shoots forward like a viper striking. And my jaw drops at the perfectly executed palm strike. The heel of her hand meets the base of Ontari’s nose, driving it up and to the side with a sickening crunch, until it is plastered flat against her cheek. And it is like Ontari’s nose is the lever to a faucet and Clarke just turned it to full blast. And, for the second time today, the blood comes streaming from Ontari’s nostrils like a crimson river, seeping almost instantly through the cracks in her fingers and staining the front of her white uniform like spilled Kool-Aid.

“You bitch!” Ontari sputters through her palms. “You crazy bitch! You broke my fucking nose!”

“Don’t mess with either of us ever again, Ontari.” Clarke commands in a voice as powerfully chilly as Ms. Indra’s. And I swear I nearly feel goosebumps rising at her words.

But Ontari, the fool that she is, ignores the warning. “You’ll pay for this, Geek.” She promises as she frantically pushes past Clarke, still clutching at her face as she heads for the door.

Clarke and I watch the door swing shut behind her, leaving a sudden, almost peaceful silence in her wake. And if it weren’t for the glossy hand print of blood streaked across the door’s worn surface, if someone were to walk into the room right now they would have no clue as to what wild, monumental event just took place in this dank, stale locker room. 

Clarke turns to me, her anger draining from her even more rapidly than the blood from Ontari’s nose, and I pull back in surprise as she reaches a hand towards my face.

“You’re bleeding.” She says as her fingertips lightly brush my brow. And at her touch, the pain shoots through my forehead even as the heat spreads through my cheeks. 

“You know...” I mutter, trying my best to fight the smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I put on my best angry voice. “I didn’t need you to rescue me. I can fight for myself.” I echo the first words she ever spoke to me. And then I add a few of my own. “I’m a champion... No one fights for me.”

Clarke laughs and drops her gaze shyly for the briefest of moments, a bit of crimson spreading through her own cheeks. “I know you can fight for yourself.” She admits.

“You can too, you know.” I say, allowing the grin to stake its place on my face. I have a feeling it will be sticking around for a while. “I mean... That palm strike...” I pause to raise my throbbing eyebrow and suck in a dramatic breath, ignoring the pain still lingering in my throat from Ontari’s attack. “Dang... You must have an amazing teacher.”

“Yeah... Master Anya IS pretty amazing.” Clarke agrees. But by the grin spreading across her own face, I know she is purposefully teasing me.

“Hey.” I give her a playful shove on the shoulder and fake a pout. “I was talking about ME. I’M the one who taught you how to fight for yourself. And now instead of ME fighting for YOU, you’re the one fighting for ME.” I laugh.

Clarke swallows hard, now blushing wildly. And before I can say it, she takes the words right out of my mouth. “Yeah... Well... I was thinking maybe from now on we could fight TOGETHER.” 

“Together.” I agree. And the word tumbling off of my tongue makes me grin more fiercely than any gold medal dangling from my neck ever could.


	20. Five-Dollar Tuesday

PART THREE: Drifting Together and Apart Side by Side  
OR  
The Messy, Messy Middle

[Four Years Later]

Chapter 20  
Five-Dollar Tuesday  
OR  
There are Worse Pains than Getting Kicked in the Face by a Ten-Year-Old

 

CLARKE 

 

Lexa pushed forward yet again, her long slender legs flying out before her, performing the triple-kick with such little effort that Clarke once again wondered if she was somehow partially immune to the natural laws of space and time. Clarke knew Lexa was holding back. Still, she was glad SHE wasn’t the one in the ring with her. That triple-kick would have nailed her three times over before she even knew what was happening. 

But Aden was quick. Just like Lexa, he seemed to defy the basic laws of physics. Both fighters moved through space as if weightless, unhindered by such silly things as gravity or friction or the basic human limits of velocity and acceleration. And yet they both kicked with a force far greater than what their masses should allow. Aden was almost as tall as Lexa now, but even more light and willowy. The boy had that stretched out feeling about him, as if his bones had grown too quickly for his muscles to keep pace and his skin was the only thing still keeping his lanky limbs attached. 

Aden slid just out of reach of Lexa’s first two kicks. Then, switching his momentum with the agility of a bird on wing, jammed into the third, moving into Lexa’s space and effectively forcing her to stop her attack mid-kick. Before she could drop her leg and switch directions, the boy had already V-stepped to her side. 

“Good, Aden!” Lexa called as the boy’s instep thwumped against her hogu. She flashed him one quick, approving smile before giving him a rough shove backwards to reset the drill. Both fighters resumed their sparring positions, fists raised, poised on the balls of their feet. “Again.” 

This time Lexa chose to attack with a simple fast-kick, her speed more than doing justice to the kick’s name. Aden didn’t try to dodge the attack. He didn’t slide backwards or off to the side or even try to jam her into the clinch. He simply raised one foot before him, his toes slicing through the air and shooting upwards like Raven’s fingertips in class. If Lexa saw Aden’s axe-kick coming for her, she certainly was powerless to avoid it, carried forward by her momentum as inevitably as a ship tossed on a wave at sea. 

She walked right into it.

Clarke saw the whole thing as if time had slowed just for her viewing pleasure. She saw every detail as if in high definition: Lexa’s eyes widening in surprise, then widening even further in panic before cramming shut; her head swiveling away from the incoming foot so that she faced Clarke; her face scrunching comically, bracing for impact as if merely pulling her eyebrows and lips in might lessen the blow; the sole of Aden’s dirty foot dragging across her sharp cheekbone, smooshing the skin of her cheek towards her nose like a chubby toddler’s; his pinky toe catching the corner of her bottom lip in its rapid descent and tugging her frown towards her jawline.

It was over in an instant. But a millisecond was all it took for Clarke to ingrain the image of Lexa’s scrunched and squashed face into her mind indelibly, capturing every detail of the moment like a polaroid. 

Aden’s foot returned to the mats as Lexa’s eyes shot back open. Clarke was not the only one stunned by the kick. Both Aden and Lexa were frozen in place, staring at each other in shocked silence. Lexa’s jaw was hanging slightly ajar, her fists now dangling limply at her side. Aden swallowed hard, shrugging involuntary, apparently awkwardly torn between the urge to smile smugly or say something cocky and the obligatory feeling that perhaps he should apologize. Before either fighter could remark on what had just happened, a voice rang from across the room.

“Hey, Aden... Your mom’s here.” Octavia called from the far corner of the gym where she and Lincoln sat side-by-side in butterfly stretch, bickering as much as stretching.

Aden and Lexa stared at each other a moment longer before he gave her the tiniest of nods, something between a bow and a farewell. And without a word, he turned on the spot, snagged his gear bag, and jogged for the door without even bothering to take his pads, or even his helmet off.

“What are YOU laughing at?” Lexa asked Clarke, frowning and wiping the remnants of Aden’s foot-grime off of her cheek with a sweaty sleeve.

“Nothing.” Clarke answered, trying to look innocent; trying to hold back the giggles rumbling in the back of her throat. “How’s your face?” She teased. “Should I get you an ice pack? A cold slab of meat? A bag of frozen peas?”

“My face is fine.” Lexa grumbled, pulling her nasty, sweaty, beat-up helmet off and chucking it at Clarke’s stomach. She frowned in disappointment as Clarke managed to catch it perfectly. But Clarke could tell by the twitch of her puckered lips, the way their corners wiggled up then down, Lexa was fighting back a smile. 

“Well...” Clarke surveyed Lexa, taking stock of her. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, red in the spot where Aden’s foot had slapped her and her sleeve had scraped at the skin. Her hair was slick with sweat and squished from her helmet, chunks of it plastered to her forehead and the edges of her jaw. Her eyebrows were raised sassily over her bright green eyes, her jaw set, her lips pulled to one side as if to say ‘what?’ She was a sweaty, stinky mess. And still, she was beautiful. 

“Your face looks fine.” Clarke commented with a chuckle. “But how’s your pride?”

“Hurts a little.” Lexa admitted, pushing her sweaty locks away from her face and running that same sweaty sleeve over her hair in an attempt to straighten it. Her efforts only sufficed to make it wilder. 

“Well,” Clarke laughed. “You did almost just get knocked out by a ten-year-old.”

“Hey.” Lexa protested, plunking down beside Clarke with a grunt. “He’s a good fighter. Better even than I was at his age.”

“Again...” Clarke teased. “He’s ten. Not even a ‘tween’ yet.”

“Yeah, well... Ten or not... Like I said... The kid’s good.” Lexa answered, pulling at the straps of her arm guards and tossing them aside. “I mean... Let’s not forget who he kicked in the face LAST Friday.”

“Hey.” Clarke argued, still chuckling her way through her defense. “First of all... He’s a higher belt than me...”

“You’re the same belt.” Lexa interrupted.

“He got his red belt two months before me.” Clarke clarified as Lexa rolled her eyes, raising her brows judgmentally. “He was already a yellow belt when I started, and therefore has more experience than me. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Right... First of all... He’s a higher belt than me. Secondly...” She continued, ignoring Lexa’s snarky snort. “You know I was on my period that night. You know Aunt Flo makes me sluggish...”

“Excuses... Excuses.” Lexa laughed, leaning back onto her elbows and stretching her long, tired legs out before her. “You know he got you fair and square. I, on the other hand, being the kind and wise instructor that I am, ALLOWED him to get that shot in. I’m building his confidence.”

“Ha!” Clarke croaked. “ALLOWED him? Yeah, right. I saw your face right before his foot smashed into it. First your eyes went wide like your brain was shouting ‘Abort! Abort!’ Then you scrunched up like you were about to get splashed by a bucket of pickle juice.” Clarke crammed her eyes shut, holding back the laughter long enough to scrunch her face dramatically, mimicking Lexa. “That was an ‘Oh shit!’ face if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Mockery’s not the product of a strong mind, Clarke.” Lexa said, pushing up off her elbows enough to give Clarke a playful shove.

Clarke just laughed again, falling back onto her own elbows beside Lexa. “You’ve been hanging out with Octavia too much, Lexa. You’re starting to sound like a walking fortune cookie.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Lexa admitted. “Speaking of fortune cookies... Wanna get some Panda Express on the way home tonight? I could get down with some beef broccoli right now.” 

“Oh... Uh...” Clarke hesitated, pushing herself back up into a sitting position and playing awkwardly with the flappy ends of her belt. She couldn’t bear to meet Lexa’s piercing green eyes. “I can’t take you home tonight. I uh... I told Finn I’d meet him at the movies.” She finished, suddenly feeling the guilt roiling hot and heavy in the pit of her stomach. 

She knew it was an asshole move, ditching Lexa at the last minute, leaving her stranded without a ride. But somehow the guilt went deeper than that. It wasn’t just the fact that she was abandoning her. It was the fact that she was abandoning her for the sake of Finn. 

Clarke couldn’t say exactly why, but she always felt the need to apologize for spending time with Finn. Lexa never said anything openly negative about him, yet Clarke found herself avoiding this topic of conversation with her, growing extremely uncomfortable any time the subject came up. Maybe, despite Lexa’s courteous silence, Clarke sensed that Lexa didn’t like him, didn’t approve of him. Maybe deep down, Clarke knew that Lexa had good reason not to.

Lexa’s face fell for the briefest of moments before she put on a small smile Clarke instantly recognized. It was the same smile Abby had worn for months after Clarke’s father’s accident. It was the same smile Clarke, herself, wore every time Finn showed up at her locker with overly cheerful flowers and an apologetic smile, smelling of guilt and industrialized roses. It was a smile she knew was fake. 

“Oh... Ok.” Lexa said with a small shrug. “No big deal, I’ll ask Octavia or Lincoln to give me a ride.”

Clarke followed Lexa’s glance towards the far corner of the gym only to realize that it was suddenly vacant. Somewhere in the space of the last five minutes, both Octavia and Lincoln had left without bothering to say goodbye. Not for the first time, Clarke wondered if the two had snuck off together. Normally she would have laughed about it. But tonight their absence made her stomach drop, multiplying the horrible feeling lurking in its depths. Lexa pretended to be unfazed.

“I mean... I’ll ask Master Anya to take me.” She said. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“I’m really sorry.” Clarke said, biting her lip awkwardly. And she meant it. “Finn just texted me right after class, while you and Aden were sparring.” Leave it to Finn to text right at the last moment, always expecting Clarke to be free. Sometimes Clarke wondered if, during their hours apart, Finn imagined her sitting around with nothing to do but stare at her phone, anxiously waiting for his texts to light up the screen, to light up her life. “He wants to take me out for Valentine’s Day.”

Was it Clarke’s imagination, or did Lexa just cringe at the mention of ‘Valentine’s Day?’ If she had, the cringe was almost immediately replaced by a blank stare. “Valentine’s Day is on Friday.” She said. “Why would he take you out tonight? It’s a school night. Does he know you have a Bio exam tomorrow?”

“It’s Tuesday.” Clarke shrugged. She could feel herself blushing; blushing on Finn’s behalf. Tuesday... Whenever Finn splurged on a movie, it was always on a Tuesday.

“Oh, right.” Lexa said. “Five-Dollar-Tuesday.”

Clarke waited for Lexa’s comments. She waited for her to call Finn ‘cheap.’ She waited for her to say something along the lines of ‘You deserve better, Clarke. You deserve someone who’s willing to spend more than five bucks for your company... Someone who plans for your date more than an hour in advance... Who picks you up and maybe even buys you dinner first instead of texting you at the last minute and expecting you to meet him there; someone who puts on a nice shirt and a dab of cologne instead of showing up in his team hoodie smelling of cigarettes and pizza pockets; someone who splurges on the jumbo coke instead of asking for a Dixie cup of ice water and waiting till the lights have dimmed and the previews started to pull a flask from his pouch and offer it to her with one hand, all the while grinning and reaching for her fingertips with the other.’

Clarke waited for Lexa to tell her that Finn was not good enough for her; not nearly good enough. But as usual, Lexa just bit her tongue. 

“Well,” Clarke sighed, glancing down out of habit at her father’s old watch. She still wore on it her wrist even though its hands had stopped making their dutiful rounds months ago. “I’d better go get changed. The movie starts at ten.”

“Have fun.” Lexa mumbled, keeping her eyes on her kneecaps as if unstrapping her shin pads was a task requiring every ounce of her attention. 

Clarke pushed herself to her feet, glancing down at Lexa one last time. Her stomach was churning now, the guilt suddenly mixing with something else she couldn’t identify. Something thick, unpleasant, almost acidic. Was it anger? Resentment?

A wave of confusion swept over her. Because though she told herself she was angry with Finn for putting her into this position, forcing her to abandon her friend, she suddenly realized she was even more angry with Lexa. Because, deep down, she knew that if Lexa only asked her to, she would tell Finn she couldn’t make it tonight after all. One word from Lexa, and Clarke would blow Finn off in a heartbeat.

But only the silence hung in the space between them as Clarke finally turned on her heels and walked away, leaving the sweaty mess of her best friend sitting alone in the corner.


	21. Teenagers

Chapter 21  
Teenagers  
OR  
Master Anya’s Crazy Explanation for Why Lexa Hates the Prettiest Douchebag Around

LEXA

“I mean, he’s just SO inconsiderate.” I say again, abandoning my chopsticks and grabbing my fork instead so I can properly spear my broccoli. I stab the little tree as if the vegetable itself has personally offended me and watch as one plastic prong breaks off my fork, sliding across my greasy styrofoam plate like a kid launching himself down a slip and slide covered in dish detergent. It comes to rest at the fluffy edge of my mountain of fried rice and I toss my ruined fork aside and, without hesitation or permission, reach for Anya’s unused fork instead.

“I’m sure he knows she has a huge Bio exam tomorrow.” I continue, now stabbing into the soft, gummy, mystery meat they call ‘beef.’ “I mean... We’ve been cramming for it for days. She must have told him. But does HE care if she gets four hours of sleep the night before? Does HE care if she falls asleep right in the middle of the exam? Just because HE’S an idiot who brags about just barely maintaining a 2.4 average so he doesn’t get kicked off the football team... I mean.... Not all of us can put all of our hopes into getting an athletic scholarship. Some of us actually care about our grades. He’s going to pull her GPA right down with his.”

“You know...” Master Anya says, holding a saucy square of tofu out before her, studying it like it is the world’s tiniest Rubik’s Cube. “This stuff really isn’t half bad. I think Lincoln’s on to something. Want to try some?” She askes, holding her chopsticks out until they hover over my plate. Before I can respond, she releases the tofu like a bomb from a jet and I watch it tumble down the side of my mountain of rice, feeling the corners of my lips descending with it.

“Are you even listening, Master Anya?” I sigh.

“Of course.” She answers, licking the sauce from the tips of her chopsticks before tucking back into her plate. “Finn’s an inconsiderate idiot who likes football... You do realize you’ve just described about half the men in America, right kiddo?” 

“It’s not funny, Master Anya.” I scold her. “Finn’s a real threat to Clarke’s GPA. She’s had a perfect 4.0 since first semester freshman year, and he could completely ruin it all.” 

“And another thing...” I go on. I know I’m rambling. I know Anya must be bored out of her mind. But I can’t stop myself. I’m pissed... So pissed. And the more I ramble the more pissed I get. 

Honestly, I’m kind of surprised by just how angry I am. I know Finn is a fairly decent guy most of the time. He’s the best wide receiver our school’s seen in years, and this skill alone is enough to garner him the adoration of nearly the entire student body, as well as half of the teachers. In the off-season, he also plays center on the school’s ice hockey team, carving the ice with his skates as effortlessly as he cuts the turf in his cleats. He’s good looking, with bright eyes and a charming smile and hair that flaps perfectly into his face in a devil-may-care sort of way. His parents are well-to-do, country clubbers. He makes friends easily, and though he’s popular enough to bully anyone he chooses to, he’s nice enough to just about everyone, as likely to smile at members of the AV Club or the Robotics Team as he is a fellow jock. To anyone looking in from the outside, Finn Collins is the absolute perfect catch.

But I’m close enough to see the cracks in his polished finish. Finn nearly always has a flask hidden away somewhere on his person, and though I’m pretty sure half the teachers know about it, he is never so much as reprimanded; not so much as slapped on the wrist. And though most of the time he is easy-going, friendly, even kind, when he’s drunk... Truly drunk... Finn can transform into a raging, paranoid, jealous, bonafide A-hole who thinks everyone in the vicinity is trying to steal Clarke away from him; as if Clarke is some expensive treasure that has to be guarded like the precious mustard-yellow mustang his father gave him or the iPhone 7 he carries with him at all times; as if Clarke isn’t a human being capable of making her own decisions or of practicing loyalty.

When he’s drunk he throws punches at any guy who even glances in Clarke’s direction. He accuses her of cheating. He makes her angry. He makes her cry. Then, when the hangover has passed, he gives her flowers and chocolates and pathetic excuses and empty promises. And she takes him back. She ALWAYS takes him back.

And I can’t figure out why. 

Because, since the day Clarke opened the floodgates of Ontari’s nose and watched the blood drain from her face like her own fear, Clarke has always, ALWAYS, stood up for herself. She’s no longer the shy little girl who kept her eyes glued to her desk in class and spent her lunches in self-inflicted solitary confinement in the library. She’s friendly and warm and confident. She’s quick to laugh and even quicker to give you a piece of her mind. At times she’s downright bossy and sassy enough to give both Raven and Octavia a run for their money. And she never, ever, ever lets anyone walk over her. That is... Except for Finn.

And Clarke deserves better; SO much better. I can see it so clearly. But somehow she can’t. 

And that knowledge leaves a bad taste on the back of my tongue, more bitter than the broccoli, more salty than the soy sauce drenching my beef, more sour than the gelatinous pinkish-red sauce clinging to my pork. And I try to wash this taste from my mouth by venting my frustration to Anya, but each word only intensifies it.

“Another thing...” I grumble again. “For someone who drives a vintage mustang and lives in a house with a four car garage... You’d think he could afford to take her to the movies on the actual weekend for once. Hell... He shouldn’t even be taking her to the movies. He should be taking her to concerts and fancy restaurants and...” I pause, wracking my brains, trying to imagine a lifestyle full of leisure unlike any I’ve ever experienced. “Art galleries and plays and amusement parks and... Operas and... Where the hell else do rich people go to waste their money?” 

“Beats me, kid.” Anya laughs with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never stepped foot into an opera house. Maybe ballets? Museums?”

“Whatever.” I shrug. “The point is he should be able to do more than just drag her to ‘Five-Dollar-Tuesday’ at Regal Cinemas every time. I mean... I just don’t get it.” I sigh, half angry, half plain exasperated. “Why is she still with him? Just because he has a cute smile and a thousand friends who practically worship him because he’s good at catching a stupid ball? Doesn’t she realize she can do so much better than that? Better than Finn Collins? Doesn’t she realize she DESERVES better than that?”

“Maybe she doesn’t.” Anya remarks.

“What?” I say, taken aback. “Of course she deserves better. She’s crazy smart and pretty and funny and kind...”

“No...” Anya laughs. “That’s not what I meant. Of course I know she is all of those things; all of those things and more. What I meant is maybe SHE doesn’t know that she is all of those things. Maybe she doesn’t KNOW she deserves better.”

I let my pathetic plastic fork sink into my fried rice, its handle rising from the greasy mountain like I’m staking my claim on its summit, and turn my confused frown to Anya. “What?” I ask again. “How could she NOT know? How could she possibly not see she’s so much better than him?”

“Sometimes people have trouble seeing the best bits of themselves, even when they’re obvious to the rest of us, Lexa.” Anya says through a bite of chow mein. She slurps in a stray noodle and licks the oil from her lips with a flick of her tongue. “Sometimes they need to be reminded who they are and just what they deserve.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, confused.

“I’m saying...” Anya sets her chopsticks down, purses her lips, and leans forward onto her elbows. “Isn’t it time you told her?”

“Told her what?” I ask.

Anya’s gaze is suddenly intense, hot as a mid-summer sun, and I feel myself reddening under it as if her dark eyes also have the power to radiate UV rays. I lean back in my chair to avoid their heat, but she only leans closer, raising her eyebrows and cocking her head in a way that says ‘You know just what I’m talking about... Don’t make me spell it out for you.’ 

“You think I should tell her she’s too good for Finn?” I mumble and I wonder if she can tell I’m terrified of the idea. 

I don’t even know myself why it is that I’m so scared. Clarke and I discuss all major life decisions together, asking each other’s opinions on everything from which flavor Pop-Tart to get out of the vending machine to what college programs we should apply to. I had no problem advising her not to buy those dollar-store tampons, or telling her ‘Commmander’ is a ridiculous name for a teddy-bear hamster, or that trying to cut fifteen pounds to get down to feather-weight was a stupid, even dangerous idea. I had no problem telling her that she could choose to study art OR go into Pre-med, but it had to be her own decision, not her mother’s. Hell, I told her she could up and move to L.A. to pursue acting or move to the Australian Outback to take up kangaroo-farming, as long as it was her OWN decision. 

So I still have no idea why, when she asked me whether or not she should let Finn Collins... THE Finn Collins... Football superstar, two-time-recipient of the school’s ridiculous ‘Most Charming Smile’ award, yada, yada, yada... Take her to Homecoming, I had suddenly found myself unable to formulate a response. My tongue had felt as fat and useless in my mouth as Octavia’s had once been after her tongue-ring had become so infected her whole tongue had swelled up like a bratwurst. (The flesh around her piercing had become a greenish black and we were all half convinced by the rank of her breath that she might just die before the antibiotics kicked in. For three days she couldn’t form words any clearer than a two-year-old’s, though Lincoln insisted this was an improvement in the quality of our lives).

There I was last fall, frozen under Clarke’s eager gaze, as speechless as Octavia. Unable to make my mouth form actual human words, I had merely shrugged and made some absurd, non-committal noise that Clarke apparently interpreted as a ‘yes.’ And by the time my tongue returned to its normal size and I found my voice again, she had already made up her mind and all that was left for me to weigh in on was what color dress would best match the brilliant blue of her eyes.

I didn’t understand it at the time... Hell, I still don’t understand it now... But I was scared then and I’m still scared now. And over the months I’ve made excuses for my cowardice by convincing myself that it’s not my place to tell Clarke who she should or shouldn’t date. As her best friend, it’s my job to support her, right? Even if she does choose the prettiest douchebag around.

“You think I should tell her that she deserves better?” I ask, biting my lip nervously at the prospect.

Anya lets out a small laugh, her smile still cocked as if she’s in on some little secret that I ought to know but don’t. “You could certainly start with that.” She says. “Maybe add the bit about how you think she’s smart and pretty and funny and kind... But what I mean, Lexa, is that I think you’ve waited just about long enough. It’s time you just go ahead and tell her everything.”

“Tell her everything WHAT?” I ask, completely confused as to what she is referring to.

Anya eyes me up and down, frowning pensively. “You really don’t know, do you, kid?”

“Don’t know what?” I say, my anger with Finn now spilling over into impatience with Anya. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve known it since the day you beat me up Nutcracker Hill.” Anya says, completely oblivious to my growing frustration, smiling absently at the memory of our run up Mt. Tabor four years ago. I still have no clue what she is actually talking about. Why is she bringing up Mt. Tabor? I’m surprised she even remembers that day. Of course I’ll never forget the first (and only) time I beat Master Anya at anything remotely athletic. But what does this memory have to do with anything?

“What are you talking about, Master Anya?” I huff. 

Master Anya fixes her gaze on me in a way that is almost sympathetic, almost pitying. “You love her, Lexa.” She states, matter-of-factly. “It’s time you told her.” 

“What?” I reply, feeling all of the anger and frustration rush out of me like helium from a balloon, punctured by a needle of sheer surprise. I stare at her, blinking in utter incomprehension.

“You’re in love with her.” Anya says again, the words ringing in my ears as if she shouted them. “It was written all over your face the day you grinned your way up Mt. Tabor.”

“I... I was twelve.” Is all I manage to say in reply.

“Yeah, so you were.” Anya laughs. “Hate to break it to you, kid... But you were a lovesick twelve-year-old. And now you’re a lovesick sixteen-year-old. Nothing’s changed.”

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stammer. “I’m not lovesick. We’re best friends, that’s all. I mean... She’s a GIRL...” I argue, completely flustered.

“She’s a GIRL.” I repeat, as if this is something Anya might not have noticed or cannot understand. “And I’M a girl... And... We’re... We’re both girls.” I finish stupidly.

Anya releases another chuckle, leaning back in her chair again and popping another clump of tofu into her mouth. “You don’t say.” She says, the sarcasm dripping from her tongue as thick as sweet and sour sauce. “Tell me something, Lexa... Have you ever had a crush on a BOY?”

“Of course I have.” I answer, taken aback by the question, by this entire conversation.

“Yeah?” Master Anya replies, unconvinced. “Care to tell me about any of them?”

“Well... There was...” I pause, thinking back, frantically searching my memories for a face or a name. “There was...” Crap... I’ve got nothing. And Master Anya knows it. 

“You know I don’t have time to think about boys.” I argue. “I’ve got training and school and teaching and-”

“Trust me, Lexa...” Master Anya laughs. “There’s ALWAYS time to think about boys. That is, of course, unless you are spending all your time thinking about someone else.” She adds, arching a brow and cocking her smile. 

“It’s OK, you know.” She adds when all I can do is huff, blustering, searching for words. “Clarke is... How’d you put it?... Funny and smart and pretty and kind. And you’re absolutely right... She does deserve so much better than Finn. You ask me... She deserves someone who’s as smart and funny and pretty and kind as she is. She deserves someone like YOU.” 

“I... She... I...” I’m still stuttering, struggling to form words like an old lady at a scrabble board with nothing but vowels and an X to work with. “We’re best friends.” I repeat.

Anya just shakes her head, still wearing that annoying smile. “I swear, Lexa... The two of you are worse than Lincoln and Octavia. Honestly...” She sighs with a roll of her eyes. “Teenagers.”

And with that, she pushes up out of her seat and heads towards the counter where the to-go boxes are stacked like a Styrofoam model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And I know she’s going to box up this smorgasbord of greasy Chinese food and send it all home with me. And I wonder if I will ever find my appetite again. Because right now, I am far too confused to eat.


	22. Valentine's Day

Chapter 22  
Valentine’s Day  
OR  
The Great Remorse and Greater Forgetfulness of a Shit Friend

 

CLARKE

“I swear, Lincoln...” Octavia sighed with a roll of her hazel eyes. “Are you ever going to put your shirt back on, or what?”

“Why?” Lincoln smirked. “Are my abs distracting you from the game?”

“No.” Octavia answered, quickly pulling her eyes off his chest, but not before Lincoln and Clarke both noticed she’d been staring. “They’re embarrassing me.” 

Lincoln had removed his shirt after Finn’s last goal, waving the midnight blue polo over his head like a proud marine brandishing the flag for which he would lay down his very life. He’d whooped and hollered like a baboon in heat as Bellamy passed Finn the puck and Finn proceeded to dash and weave his way down the ice, easily duping the opposing goalie into ducking right as he sent the puck rocketing into the opposite corner of the net. As the crowd erupted in cheers, Finn made his trademark victory lap of the ice, holding his stick out above him at an angle like a heavily armored Usain Bolt. 

They were now five minutes into the break between the first two periods and Lincoln still had his shirt off. Clarke had long gotten used to Lincoln finding any and every excuse to rip his clothes off, and she couldn’t blame him. As if overcompensating for years and years of being scrawny, just after Lincoln’s sixteenth birthday, his muscles had suddenly filled out almost overnight, as if magically fulfilling the wish he had made as he blew out his candles. The cords of muscle burst forth from his body like daffodils popping out of the thawing ground, arranging themselves into perfectly chiseled abs, thick pecs, bulging biceps, even broad wings flanking either side of his rib cage, wrapping around to his back. 

The transformation was more than startling. It was (considering the boy had been vegan for nearly three years, having made the rash decision to give up all animal products (even string cheese and Slim Jims) after reading Clarke’s crumpled flyers at States) simply nothing short of miraculous. Lincoln claimed it was the combination of kale, chia seeds, spirulina, tofu, and peanut butter he put in his weird post-workout smoothies. (The smoothies were a thick, clumpy, greenish-brown and though Lincoln was constantly urging his teammates to sample his ‘miracle-foods’ concoction, no one had yet to indulge him). Despite his claims, Clarke just figured maybe all of the protein Master Anya had shoved down his throat had finally caught up with him, as if his cells had simply been amassing the amino acids for years, storing them away, waiting for just the right moment to assemble a man out of the boy Clarke had once known. 

Yes, Clarke was used to Lincoln’s shirtless chest. At this point, she barely batted an eye at his perfectly sculpted body. But it seemed Octavia was not as immune as Clarke. And his penchant for stripping drove her crazy to no end.

“Honestly...” Octavia continued her nagging. “This is a hockey game, not a beach volleyball tournament. Put your damn shirt back on.”

“I’m too warm.” Lincoln complained.

“It’s like fifty-five degrees in here!” Octavia huffed, her words rising in a little white puff before her.

“Are you sure?” Lincoln replied with a devilish smirk. “It feels a lot warmer where I’m sitting. Maybe if you weren’t so close to me...”

Octavia ignored Lincoln’s obvious attempt at flirting. “Right... That’s why your nipples look sharp enough to sculpt an ice statue with... Because you’re HOT.”

“Hey.” Lincoln’s smirk only grew wider. “I just said I was too WARM. But if you want to call me HOT, I won’t argue with you.” 

“Honestly,” Octavia shook her head, rolling her eyes. “You’re obviously freezing. If someone were to hug you right now, your nipples would probably impale them.”

Lincoln looked down at his chest thoughtfully, taking stock of his nipples like a chess player assessing the game board. “I highly doubt that, Octavia.” He said. “But if you want to prove me wrong, we could give it a try.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Octavia sighed, crossing her arms over her own chest.

“You’re BOTH ridiculous.” Luna cut in from Lincoln’s opposite side. “The two of you ought to just go get a room already. It is Valentine’s Day, after all.”

“I second that.” Clarke cut in, pretending to be annoyed by their shenanigans. Though, truth be told, she found listening to Octavia’s and Lincoln’s flirtatious bickering a hell of a lot more entertaining than the game on the ice below them. 

“They make a good point.” Lincoln commented, wiggling his eyebrows at Octavia.

“In your dreams, Lincoln.” Octavia replied, still playing her own game. But by the red in her cheeks, Clarke knew it was only a matter of time before Octavia gave in to Lincoln’s advances. Already the two of them were nearly inseparable, though Clarke had never seen them so much as hold hands. “Like your broke ass could even afford a room...”

“Hell...” Luna cut in again. “I’LL pay for the damn room if it will get the two of you to shut up.”

Less than two weeks after Luna had stormed out of the ring at States, the girl had appeared in their gym so suddenly and unexpectedly, it was as if she were a real-life Hermione who had just apparated into their midst. She had slinked her way across the mats, silent, solemn, like a prisoner walking the green mile, her eyes trained on her feet, so all Clarke could see was her dark bush of hair bobbing across the room like some wild animal sitting atop her shoulders. It was ten minutes before class and Clarke had been sitting with Lexa and the gang, chatting and stretching lazily. Without a word, Luna had plunked down beside them and reached for her toes, and a cold silence had descended over the group, trailing behind the girl like the chilly North wind, as if the words stitched across the back of her uniform had magically manifested into their physical counterpart. No one had known what to make of the girl’s sudden appearance. Had a Headhunter really just breached their perimeter? Didn’t they have some kind of defense in place to prevent such an occurrence? But the event was unprecedented. Never before had a Headhunter even attempted to cross the threshold of Evergreen TKD.

They had exchanged silent glances of shocked confusion, their eyes darting back and forth as if to ask ‘WTF?... Is she lost? Should we say something?’ or ‘should we drive her away?’ All the while, Luna had kept her own eyes locked on her kneecaps, the awkward silence hanging in the air surrounding her like an icy mist. But as soon as Master Anya noticed the girl’s presence, she had warmed the air with her welcoming smile and beckoned Luna into the back room. Within minutes Luna had re-emerged, now dressed in the uniform the rest of them all wore with pride. And it wasn’t long before Luna had become as much a Fir as any of them.

 

Clarke sighed as the buzzer echoed through the stadium, announcing the beginning of the second period. More than a third of the way through the game and the seat beside her was still empty. She watched the boys darting back and forth across the ice like frenzied fish in a pond fighting over bits of bread. But within minutes her eyes were as glazed over as the ice after a run of the zamboni, and her thoughts ricocheted off the walls of her mind like the puck against the boards. Where the hell was Lexa?

As if her thoughts had conjured her, a girl plopped into the seat beside her. Clarke’s heartbeat fluttered with excitement, pulling her out of her stupor.

“My mom made tamales again.” The girl spoke, and a wave of disappointment washed over Clarke as she looked up to see Raven handing her a bulging plastic bag emitting plumes of steam into the cold air. 

“You’re late.” Clarke said, dropping the tamales onto her thighs, feeling the warmth radiate through her jeans like a fat cat had taken residence on her lap. She reached into the bag and dug one out, letting the warmth spread through her fingertips for a long moment before pulling away the corn husk and sinking her teeth into the soft masa. 

For months after Raven’s surgery, Clarke had hesitated to take the pots of pisole and casserole-dishes of enchiladas and saran-wrapped bowls of menudo that Raven constantly thrust into her hands. Raven’s mother still felt like she owed Clarke and Abby a debt that could never be fully atoned for. But that didn’t stop her from trying her damndest to pay it off one authentic, ridiculously delicious Mexican dish at a time. Of course Abby insisted that this wasn’t necessary, and insisted that Clarke insist Raven to insist her mother to stop. Of course Raven’s mother insisted that Raven insist Clarke to insist Abby to accept each dish, as if each tamale or torta were a token of her undying gratitude. Raven and Clarke were caught awkwardly in the middle of it all, and over time they had slowly begun to forgo the ‘thanks... But I really can’t accept this,’ and the ‘please... My mother wants you to have it,’ and the ‘really... You shouldn’t have,’ and the ‘really... it’s no problem,’ and now they just skipped directly to the exchange like an addict and a dealer meeting on the corner. 

Clarke knew Raven’s life had been forever changed by the operation. Raven no longer had to watch the rest of them from the cold, hard bleachers. Already she was a blue-belt, practicing each new move she learned with a precision obtained by constantly analyzing the physics behind each kick and strike, driving Master Anya as crazy as she once drove Ms. Indra. But, annoyed as she always was, Master Anya couldn’t ever help but smile at the grin on Raven’s face as she explained the angles and force and velocity of each kick with a contagious enthusiasm.

It hadn’t been easy to arrange the surgery. It had taken months for Abby to obtain the go-ahead, moving her petition up the hospital’s daisy-chain of command, which was as complicated and convoluted as any military’s. But it had taken months longer to get Raven’s mother to agree to it, the woman being more formidably stubborn than any of Abby’s higher-ups at the hospital. A first generation immigrant from a violence-ridden village in southern Mexico, the woman was not accustomed to accepting any ‘handouts.’ As much as she had always yearned to get Raven her surgery, working endless shifts as a Red Robin line cook and a housekeeper at Holiday Inn, and saving whatever she could in order to raise the funds for the procedure, she could never bring herself to accept an entirely free surgery for her daughter. 

In the end, she had consented to the procedure under the circumstances that Abby accept the thirty-five hundred dollars she had managed to scrape together and (though never formally agreed upon) a lifetime supply of weekly Mexican meals as payment. And Clarke, as the mastermind behind the entire endeavor, was now reaping the benefits of it one bite at a time. The truth was that Raven’s mother was a true ‘cook’ in every sense of the word, a woman who would certainly shake her head in appalled disapproval if she ever stepped into the Griffin kitchen. Clarke could just imagine her staring at the boxes of Kraft Mac and Cheese and Hamburger Helper and cans of Dinty Moore stew lining the shelves of their pantry muttering to herself, ‘gringos flojos.’ And, with the tamale’s soft masa crumbling perfectly over her tongue to reveal its center of tender shredded chicken, Clarke secretly hoped Ms. Reyes would spend the rest of her years feeling indebted to Abby. 

Clarke swallowed and blew a puff of steam from her lips. “Where’s Lexa?”

“She’s still teaching.” Raven answered. “I helped her with the Little Dragons but she told me she could handle the rest on her own.”

“Oh shit!” Clarke exclaimed, her stomach sinking with a heavy heat as if she had just scarfed the entire bag of tamales. She felt sick. 

Master Anya had told them weeks ago that she would be leaving town for a coaching seminar and was officially putting Lexa in charge during her absence. And Clarke had volunteered... Even promised... To help. How could she have forgotten? How? How?

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Clarke groaned, sinking in her seat even as the bodies crammed all around her rose to their feet with shrieks of delight. Lincoln was spinning his shirt above his head like a ceiling fan again. 

“Another goal for the White and Blue...” The commentator cried enthusiastically as Clarke buried her face in her palms. “As Finn Collins, skater number fifty-five, picks it up off the boards and soars through the neutral zone into enemy territory, weaving through the defense with speed, power, and precision to put another one in for Polaris! They don’t call Collins the “Ice Runner” for nothing, folks. Only a Junior, the Polaris Center is certainly a player to keep your eye on. The Comets now lead two to zero, here in the opening of the second period.”

The crowd around her was stomping now, pounding out a disjointed, chaotic rhythm as Finn made his obnoxious victory lap around the ice. The raucous was deafening. Yet all Clarke could hear was the little voice in her head whispering to her, reminding her of what a shit friend she was.

“I can’t believe I forgot.” Clarke lamented as all around her butts dropped back to their seats, the roaring din of the crowd dropping with them. “I told her I would help her. And I totally forgot. I’m a horrible friend. God, she must be so pissed at me.”

Raven just shrugged, snagging a tamale from the sack without bothering to ask first. “She seemed alright. If she’s mad at you, she didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“I should call her and apologize.” Clarke said, already reaching for her Galaxy. But Raven put a hand on her wrist to stop her.

“She’s still teaching right now, Clarke... Remember? She won’t be able to answer in the middle of class. And, like I said... She seemed fine. You know Lexa...” She laughed through a mouthful of steaming masa. “It’s pretty hard for you to piss her off. Me, on the other hand? Well, that’s a different story. But YOU? She never gets mad at you. It’s like she thinks you have a goddamn ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card affixed to your forehead. Just because she’s irremediably besotted with you.” She finished with a roll of her dark eyes. 

But Clarke, awash in her own thoughts, was only half listening. “Ear-a-what?”

Raven let out a small laugh, shaking her head at Clarke as if Raven found her beyond hopeless, only adding confusion to the slew of emotions already roiling within her. 

“Nothing.” Raven said. “What I mean is, if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

But Clarke WAS worried. “I’ll call her after the game.” She decided. “When classes are finished.”

“OK... If you insist. Angry or not... I’m sure Lexa would LOVE to get a call from you. Especially TONIGHT.” Raven chuckled again as if she had just made some clever joke. If she had, the humor in it had gone completely over Clarke’s head. But Clarke didn’t give it much thought. She often felt like speaking with Raven was akin to listening to a radio tuned into a channel just one frequency off of where it should be. Even when Clarke could discern all of the words crackling through, all too often, the meaning behind them remained unclear.

“When you’re done clearing your conscience.” Raven mumbled, balancing her half-eaten tamale on her knee before rummaging through her backpack and finally pulling out a beat-up textbook titled ‘Digame!’ “Tell her I think I left my English-to-Spanish dictionary on Master Anya’s desk.” 

Clarke found it beyond ironic that Raven was taking beginner-level Spanish when she was raised by a woman who spoke the language more fluently and beautifully than any Polaris High ‘profesora’ ever would. But Raven said her mom had reasoned that school would be hard enough for a little brown-skinned girl with a limp. Raven was already different enough, and Ms. Reyes wanted her daughter to be as American... As ‘gringa’... as possible. So the only Spanish Raven had picked up throughout her childhood was what she heard in the kitchen when her aunties came over to cook up a storm of laughter, gossip, and Mexican treats. That, and what she learned from her mother’s telanovelas on the rare days Raven spent laying on the sofa in front of the TV sucking on lozenges and her mother’s magical healing tea while her mother worried and fussed over her. Basically, Raven had memorized random, useless things like ‘Did you hear? Cousin Luisa’s pregnant again,’ and ‘the salsa needs more lime,’ and ‘No, I won’t go to bed with you. You’ll never seduce me, devil-woman.’ But if push came to shove, she couldn’t hold a conversation in Spanish with a four-year-old.

Raven buried her nose in her worn textbook and Clarke turned her eyes back to the game. But she was paying no more attention to the action down on the ice than Raven was. Her thoughts were a mile away from this chilly, noisy stadium. They had wandered over to the muggy little gym where Lexa was busy teaching others to fight, just as she had been teaching Clarke to fight for herself for years. 

Clarke felt horrible, the guilt and regret compounding within her as she wondered how Lexa must be feeling right now. Abandoned? Forgotten? Snubbed? Angry? Lexa had every right to be angry, angry, angry with Clarke. In fact, over the past two days Lexa had been acting so strange Clarke had already begun to wonder if she were angry with her before she had even made this new asshole mistake. Ever since Clarke had ditched her for the movies with Finn Tuesday night, Lexa had been strangely distant, quiet, cold, almost formal in her interactions with Clarke. Clarke had the distinct feeling that Lexa had been avoiding her for the last three days, always mumbling the most random excuses and rapidly disappearing whenever the two of them found themselves alone together. Clarke could only assume that Lexa was angry with her. Though the explanation didn’t quite fit, because Raven was right... As short tempered as she could get with others, Lexa was never angry with Clarke. At least not for more than five minutes. Certainly not three days. 

The minutes passed as Clarke’s mind wandered through the past and the present and the future, her thoughts flitting back and forth, colliding with one another, weaving around each other, advancing and retreating as messily as the skaters on the ice. The commentators commentated. The boys hollered and whooped and spun various pieces of clothing over their heads. The fangirls fangirled. Lincoln and Octavia bickered and flirted and bickered some more. Luna sighed and made snide remarks. Raven studied, occasionally pulling her eyes from the pages of her textbook to glare at everyone else, clearly annoyed at their inconsiderate noise-making. 

And all the while Clarke’s mind was with Lexa, analyzing every word she had spoken to or look she had given Clarke over the last couple days; wondering what thoughts were running through Lexa’s head right now; planning a hundred different ways she might apologize to Lexa, each apology more inadequate than the last. 

More than once Clarke considered just up and leaving the game (after all, she wasn’t really watching any of it and she knew that regardless of whether she had seen it all or not, Finn would give her the painfully detailed play-by-play of the entire game later on anyway) and driving the mile or so to Evergreen Tae Kwon Do to apologize in person. But Finn would throw a conniption fit worthy of a three-year-old if he found out she ditched mid-game, on VALENTINE’S Day, of all days. And deep down, she knew she was scared to face Lexa. Because she had been a grade-A asshole of a friend, and no matter how lame her apology was, she knew Lexa would forgive her. And instead of ripping her a new one, Lexa would just shrug it off with that small fake smile that never quite hid the hurt glistening in those sea-green eyes. And the shrug and the smile and the hurt would only make Clarke feel a thousand times worse.

“Is it finally over?” Raven asked, pulling Clarke’s mind back to the present by thumping her textbook closed. All around them people were rising in waves, trickling down the aisles and flowing in rivers down the stairs towards the exits of the stadium. “Did we win?”

“Honestly, Raven...” Luna replied. “Why do you even bother to come to these things if all you’re going to do is study?”

“My mere physical attendance offers moral support to Bell and Finn.” Raven answered. “Who ever said such support would require the presence and attention of my mental faculties as well? Besides... This way I can properly enjoy the party without spending the entire night ruminating on the copious amounts of homework awaiting me.”

“Whatever you say.” Luna laughed.

“The party?” Clarke asked, confused. “What party?”

The others stared blankly at her as if trying to decide whether or not she was being facetious. 

“Are you joking, or what?” Octavia asked. “FINN’s party, of course.” 

“Finn’s having a party? When?” Clarke’s question was met with more blank stares. 

“Tonight.” Luna provided.

“Tonight’s Valentine’s Day.” Clarke stated.

“All the more reason to get drunk and stupid.” Lincoln laughed.

Octavia smacked Lincoln on the back of the head, having to stand on her tiptoes to get the proper leverage. “You’re already stupid, Lincoln.”

“His parents are off on a romantic getaway at some ritzy hotel on the banks of the Rogue River.” Raven explained. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“He must have forgotten.” Clarke mumbled.

Leave it to Finn to neglect to tell her something like this. No doubt he expected her to be at the party, clinging to his side, oohing and awing at all the right moments as he told and retold each amazing play of the game she had just spent an hour tuning out the first go-round, and avoiding all contact (direct or indirect, purposeful or accidental) with any other boys present. She held in a bitter chuckle as she wondered if maybe he had told her about the party in a text.

As if he knew she were thinking about him, Finn suddenly appeared at her side, his helmet clutched under his arm, his long hair flopping over his eyes as perfectly as ever, despite the beads of sweat dripping from its ends.

“Hey Babe. Did you see that last shot I made? Right off the post and into the sweet spot!” He leaned in to kiss her, but Clarke sidestepped his advance just in time.

“You smell like sweat, Finn.” She protested.

“Sweat?” Finn laughed. “That’s the scent of VICTORY you’re smelling, Babe. You ready to go?”

“Go where?” 

“To my place.” Finn answered as if it were obvious, as if they had already arranged these plans days ago. “To set up for the party.”

“Oh... You mean the party you never bothered to tell me you were throwing?” Clarke sassed. “THAT party?”

“I told you about it.” 

“When?”

“Plenty of times.” Finn answered vaguely, shrugging. “Anyways... It’s Valentine’s Day and I’ve hardly seen you all day.” He whined, wrapping a sweaty arm around her waist and pulling her into him. “I thought you could come over and help me set up. You know... Hiding all the valuables... Bubble-wrapping the breakables... Covering the furniture with drape cloth... It’ll be romantic. I can tell you all about the game and you can tell me all about the reproductive cycle of horny fruit flies or whatever other shit you learned in science today.”

“I don’t know...” Clarke replied. She thought of Lexa alone at the gym, turning off the ‘open’ sign, bolting the doors, riding her bike home in the dark. “Maybe I already have other plans.”

“Other plans?” Finn scoffed. “Like what? Doing homework? Come on... It’s Valentine’s Day... We’re supposed to be together.”

“Well maybe if you wanted to spend time with me, you shouldn’t have scheduled a party on Valentine’s Day.” Clarke argued. “Half the school’s probably going to be there, right?”

“Naw...” Finn shook his head innocently, making Clarke sick with how adorably his hair flopped with the motion. “Just the boys.” He gestured lazily towards the locker room where the rest of the team was getting dressed, no doubt celebrating their victory by swinging towels over their heads, coiling them, and slapping each other in the ass with them.

“The boys... Plus whatever fangirls they bring with them.” Clarke added with a roll of her eyes. “And whatever friends those girls manage to drag along with them. And no doubt the football team will be there with whatever fangirls THEY bring along-”

“Like I said...” Finn laughed. “Just a select few. Come on, Princess...” He pleaded with a pathetically cute pout, using the pet name that Clarke somehow simultaneously loved and loathed. “Come to the party... It’ll be fun. I swear.”

Without waiting for an answer, Finn slung Clarke’s sack of tamales over his shoulder and grabbed Clarke’s wrist. And, with nothing but a last sigh of submission, Clarke let him lead her down the bleachers, having already forgotten all about the phone tucked away in her back pocket. 

It wasn’t until a few hours later, as Finn, clutching her by the wrist once again, pulled her into his bedroom and tucked his greedy fingers into that very same pocket, that Clarke realized she’d never made that call to Lexa. But by then it was too late. And it didn’t really matter anyway. Because just what would she have said if she HAD called Lexa? All that time thinking over possible apologies and the best she had managed to procure was only seven words long. 

Seven words that Clarke knew were as inadequate as they were accurate: ‘Sorry, Lexa.... But I’m a shit friend.’


	23. The Lion's Call

Chapter 23  
The Lion’s Call  
OR  
The One Word Apology, The One Word Plea

LEXA

My eyelids drag open, my pupils struggling to make sense of the blackness still pressing in upon them, my ears struggling to make sense of the raucous bombarding them, my foggy brain struggling to make sense of any and all of it. Slowly I come to the realization that I was awoken... Awoken by the unmistakable sound of a lion crouched in the corner of my room, roaring in the darkness.

Clarke.

My sluggish brain is jerked to life by a jolt of adrenaline like a sloppy soldier brought to attention by a surly commanding officer. I detangle myself from the thin sheet I’d wrapped over and under and around me for warmth and stumble to the corner, following the soft white light of my faithful little flip-phone. 

This is not the first time it has pulled me from sleep in the dead of night. The harsh cawing of birds at two a.m. no longer startles me. And it is only weary annoyance I feel when I let Raven pull me out of my dreaming to force me to listen to her jabbering about some inconclusive results she’s gotten in her latest science experiment or asking my opinion on such matters as the possible political motives behind Shakespeare’s muddling of gender roles in ‘As You Like It.’ Whenever Raven calls in the middle of the night her voice always rattles with the jittery side-effects of a jumbo cup of her signature RedBull-Americano (which tastes as horrid as one might fear but is even more effective than one might hope). And she always seems surprised to hear the groggy remnants of sleep in my grunted attempts at speech, as if she had locked herself into her room while it was still early afternoon, drawn the blinds to mute the distractions of the bothersome outside world, and has no clue that hours have passed and the moon has long ago chased the sun from his fortress in the sky. 

I check the glowing numbers on the face of my alarm clock. 2:47. Clarke doesn’t call me at three in the morning to discuss mathematics or chemistry or English literature. Clarke doesn’t call me at three in the morning, period. The lion bites his tongue as I flip the phone open.

“Clarke?” I ask, confusion and worry and curiosity mingling in the sleepy slur of my voice.

Clarke doesn’t reply. But she is hardly silent. And immediately I know something is wrong. I can hear her tears in the choppiness of her breaths, in the empty space where her voice ought to be.

“Clarke? What’s going on? Are you OK?” I ask frantically. “Talk to me.”

“Lexa...” Is all she says. Just my name... And yet it sounds like an apology. It sounds like a plea.

“Clarke... What’s wrong?” I ask again. “Are you alright?”

“I...” Clarke stammers with a small sniffle. “I... I let him go too far.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “Let who go too... Finn? You’re talking about Finn?” Suddenly it all makes sense, and I feel a new emotion mixing with the worry and the confusion, overpowering them like too much vinegar in a sauce: Anger. “Did Finn hurt you?”

“No...” Clarke answers softly. “I mean... He... I... We...” Her words trail into silence before ever forming a coherent sentence.

“Are you OK?” I repeat. “Where are you? Are you safe? Are you in danger? Is anyone with you?” I sound like a worried mother expecting to find her child somewhere on the side of the road stranded in the proverbial ‘ditch.’ But I don’t care. I need to know she’s alright. 

“Yes.” Clarke says. “I mean, no. I mean... Yes... I’m safe. I’m home. I’m alone.”

“Are you OK?” I ask yet again. “What happened? Do you want me to come over?”

“No.” Clarke takes a deep breath, hiccuping, and steadies her voice. “No... No... It’s OK... I’m OK. Oh God...” She suddenly blurts out. “What am I doing? It’s almost three!” She gasps, as if only just realizing it’s the middle of the night. “I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.”

“It’s totally OK.” I answer.

“No, it’s not.” She declares, now sounding more like an appalled parent than a distraught teenager. “I’m a horrible friend! First I ditched you on Tuesday. Then I forgot to help you tonight. And then I forgot to call to apologize for forgetting...” She’s rambling, flustered and angry with herself and still panicked with whatever is truly bothering her, whatever it is that happened. “And now I wake you up in the middle of the night and...”

“It’s OK, Clarke.” I repeat. “Raven does it all the time. But... What’s going on? What happened? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I... I shouldn’t have bothered you like this.” Clarke says. “I’m really sorry. I... I... I’m really sorry, Lexa.”

And with that, I hear a small click and then... Nothing at all.

I know she has hung up. I know the line is dead. The silence sits heavy in the hollows of my ear, saturated with words left unspoken. And yet, I still clutch the phone, pressing it against me as if waiting for someone to speak; waiting for Clarke or an angel or the universe or the Big Man Upstairs, himself, to take me off of hold and give me some instruction. 

I finally lower my hand to my lap and stare at the faintly glowing keypad of my phone, each number framed by its own little halo of light. Three times I begin to dial Clarke’s number. Three times I slam the phone shut only to flip it open again moments later. 

‘I let him go too far.’ The words echo in my mind like a bully’s taunt whispered in my ear, sinking through flesh and bone and blood to find the core of me. I try not to think about their meaning. I try not to wonder just how far Clarke deems ‘too’ far. I try not to imagine Finn’s callused fingers greedily roaming Clarke’s skin, caressing and squeezing and prodding her like a shopper testing the ripeness of a peach before tossing it into his basket. I try not to picture his lips and tongue dragging down her body, sampling the various parts of her like a boy in a froyo bar. I try not to wonder how much of it she actually wanted, and how much of it she merely pretended to want, and, worst of all, how much of it occurred despite the fact that she made it clear she did not want it at all.

The backlight of my phone grows dim with disuse, then extinguishes, catapulting me into darkness once again. I feel dizzy, lightheaded, like my head may explode. I feel sick, nauseated, like my twisted, squirming insides might just explode right along with it. I should lie back down, climb onto the saggy old mattress, wrap myself in the sheet that is as thin as my own skin, and try to cast my thoughts into the abyss of sleep. 

But, better or not, I have another idea. 

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip my phone into the pocket of my sweatpants and feel my way through the door, down the hall, and into the living room. I squeeze my way into my jacket, fish my keys from its pocket, snag my helmet from the corner and pull the crinkled ball of my vest from its cavern before shoving it onto my head and stepping into the bitter cold of night. 

‘I let him go too far. I let him go too far. I let him go too far.’ The words repeat in my mind as loud and shrill as a blaring siren; as offensive as a racist, sexist slur uttered from the greasy lips of a seedy, old man; as maddeningly persistent as the Christmas jingle you inexplicably cannot stop humming on a sweltering afternoon in June. And I clip my helmet on as my foot finds the kickstand, pulling the strap so tight that it digs into the tender flesh that is not quite chin, not quite neck. And I pull it tighter still, willing the pressure to drive the thoughts from my mind, to clear it like the silent, empty space filling the night around me. 

But it is not until the pedals are turning under my feet and the tires and sprockets and chains are all turning with them, and the very world is turning beneath it all, that my mind finally stops its own turning. And I will myself to pedal faster as the icy wind gusts through the narrow channels of my ears to numb my mind, to freeze my thoughts and scatter them like drifting snowflakes. And I pedal faster and faster and faster, until all I can hear is the whirring moan of the wind and the rapid thumping of my pulsating blood and the raspy breaths of my lungs struggling to trap the frigid air. And I do not let my legs slow until the words have been driven out of my mind, chased like frightened children from an old curmudgeon’s yard; until all that is left repeating in my mind is one voice, one word.

‘Lexa...’ I hear Clarke whisper again and again. Just my name.

‘Lexa...’ An apology.

‘Lexa...’ A plea.


	24. Cold Tamales Under the Stars

Chapter 24  
Cold Tamales Under the Stars  
OR  
The Surprisingly Sweet Ending to the Annual Worst Day of Clarke’s Whole Fucking Year 

CLARKE

Clarke ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, the salty taste of her tears mingling with that of the shredded chicken still lingering in the grooves of her teeth. Her lips were rapidly chapping beneath the rough kisses of the wind, her cheeks stinging beneath the slaps of his caress. Clarke ignored the pain. It was more of a mild discomfort, really. Over the winters, she had grown used to the feel of her lips drying and cracking and pulling apart like scraps of tissue paper whenever she laughed or smiled too widely. Her lips could chap in a matter of hours, their thin skin seizing up as the temperature dropped, often becoming raw and bloody before she could find one of her countless tubes of lip balm she kept tucked away in random places. (Whenever she didn’t need one, it seemed Clarke would stumble upon a tube in the most curious of places: buried in the sofa cushions, hiding in the junk drawer between the screwdrivers and the rubber bands, wedged in the toe of an old pair of sneakers she hadn’t worn in months. But when she needed one, they were nowhere to be found.) Clarke had come to think of her lips as her own natural barometer, her personal meteorologist. And tonight their gentle aching told her this: Tonight’s forecast... Unusually clear skies with a smattering of stars. Humidity... Beyond low. Winds... Mean, bitter, and biting. Temperature... Fucking cold and dropping.

Clarke pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It was a meager shield against the fierce cold, like trying to hide from a hurricane inside the plastic walls of a HoneyBucket. But the little warmth it did offer was just enough to keep her butt planted despite the night’s attempts to drive her back inside. Any sensible person would have crawled back inside ages ago, seeking the warmth and comfort of their bed. But right now Clarke’s bed could offer her no comfort. On the contrary, when she had climbed into its warm embrace, laid her head down on her soft pillow, and closed her eyes, she had suddenly found herself back in Finn’s bed, reliving the events of the night like she were a character trapped in a movie and someone was rewinding and replaying the scene over and over again.

She had known she was in her own bed, alone beneath her canopy of plastic stars glowing faithfully above her. And yet, she could still feel his fingers crawling up her shirt, following the lines of her rib cage to reach around to her back. With a smooth, easy, almost practiced, flick of his fingertips, he had unfastened her bra, and before Clarke had even realized it was undone, her bra, along with her shirt, were balled up beneath her chin, leaving her tummy and chest as naked as a willow in December. Though she knew it was only a memory, Clarke could still feel the warmth of his breath, the wetness of his tongue plunging into her navel, and within moments she had shot from her bed, unable to stay there a single second longer. She had wrapped the covers around her like a blanket of shame, and climbed her way out the window and into the cold, hoping her memories and her thoughts would not follow.

But Clarke had been a fool. Because out here, beneath the gaze of a million tiny pinpricks of light, she had nothing but her memories; nothing but her thoughts. And though she was no longer thinking of Finn or his bed, his fingers or his breath or his tongue, the darkness had not brought her mind any peace. Maybe it was the date on the calendar... Maybe it was the patterns of the stars shimmering above: Orion, the Hunter; Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the grizzly and her cub; Draco, the great winged dragon; the Seven Sisters in their tight cluster gathered like chattering gossips... Maybe it was simply her loneliness, her longing for someone at her side, a comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders. Clarke couldn’t say exactly why. But she was thinking of her father. 

A tiny streak of light in the heavens caught Clarke’s eye and she watched with only mild interest as the shooting star fell to earth. A shooting star... A misnomer if Clarke had ever heard one. She knew it was not an actual star, but simply a meteor, nothing more than a chunk of rock and dust and metal floating aimlessly through space before straying too close to the clutches of Earth’s gravitational pull. Now it hurtled through the atmosphere, catching fire, making its descent in a final blaze of glory, as if the rock, like all things meeting their end, simply desired that its passage from this world may not go unnoticed. A brief dance of light and flame, than the meteor was swallowed into the darkness from which it had come, dissolving into nothingness before Clarke’s very eyes. And just like that, in the quickest of instants, it ceased to exist, becoming nothing more than the memory of a squiggle of white light burned into the canvas of Clarke’s pupils.

There was beauty in it. And there was sadness in it too. Because wasn’t that just the way of the universe? One moment you were meandering through your tiny corner of space, a body of form and substance, of thought and life, and the next you suddenly found yourself pulled into the clutches of death, reduced into nothingness, into non-existence. And the best you could hope for in the end was a pair of watching eyes, a soul to note your departure, a hope that you might somehow still exist in memory. 

When she was little, Clarke and her father would light up under the glow of a shooting star, pointing out their blazing arcs with the same enthusiasm they reserved for slug-bugs and lucky pennies and the blurred outlines of massive ships gliding like ghosts on the sea’s horizon. They would take turns making ludicrous wishes on the falling stars, asking the universe for a pony or a puppy, a set of new drill-bits or an end-of-the-year-bonus, or (something they always both agreed on) a snow day.

Clarke closed her eyes and leaned her tired head back against the cold siding. She had long ago abandoned the silly practice of wishing on the stars. If the universe was in the habit of granting wishes, it certainly hadn’t chosen to humor a single one of hers. Perhaps she had simply asked too much of it as a child. Perhaps she STILL asked too much of it. Because the deepest wish she held inside her now made asking for a snowstorm in southern L.A. seem like a humble request. If Clarke could make one wish in this moment, it would be for her father sitting by her side, filling the cold, hollow space beside her with warmth and laughter. Because, more than anything else, Clarke wished she was not alone.

A soft squealing cut the night air, sharpened and amplified by the silence all around it. It drifted to Clarke’s ears from below like a helium balloon carried upwards on a sudden gust of wind. And a fresh wave of guilt wracked over Clarke even as she felt the corners of her chapped lips pulling into a painful smile.

She didn’t have to open her eyes. She didn’t have to peer down through the dim light of the streetlamps to know what had caused the squealing. She would recognize that screech from a mile away. It was the creaking of old, tired, brakes; the kind of brakes you found on a rusty, beat-up bicycle purchased off of Craigslist for twenty crisp ones; the kind of brakes that failed you at the most inconvenient moments, such as when a child chasing a soccer ball appears out of nowhere to fall directly across your path. Raven had tightened said brakes after that unfortunate event (having just had a tire roll over his shin at a whopping five miles an hour, the kid had hobbled away more startled than injured) and though they now approached standards of safety, if anything, the brakes only screeched louder than ever before. 

The squeal was short, a harsh note piercing the silence only momentarily before being swallowed by it. And it was only as the sound bounced off of her eardrums and then dissolved back into the quiet that Clarke realized she had been waiting for it, expecting it any moment like the pop of the toaster or the sound of the alarm you cannot help but anticipate while in that strange half-slumber of snoozing. She had been waiting, waiting, waiting to hear it... The sound of tires coming to a halt.

Lexa... 

Lexa had come.

 

Of course Clarke had never asked Lexa to come. And yet, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that she wasn’t surprised at all by Lexa’s arrival. Perhaps deep down she had known all along, even as her finger had hovered over the screen of her Galaxy, that to press the little green button was to condemn Lexa to a sleepless night and a half-hour ride through the ridiculous cold. Clarke tried to convince herself that she hadn’t known Lexa would come... That it was merely coincidental that she had conveniently forgotten to lock the front door or turn off any of the downstairs lights. Clarke would never admit it, even to herself, but she HAD known. And it was the selfish part of her that had pushed the button as the tears were falling. And it was the selfish part of her that didn’t regret it now.

“You shouldn’t have come, Lexa.” Clarke said as Lexa’s head popped through the open window. But she didn’t mean a word she spoke, because that selfish part of her... The part of her that had designed this from the beginning... That selfish part of her was so beyond pleased it was practically reclining in a chair, puffing a fat cigar with its fingers folded neatly over its belly. 

“How’d you know I was here?” Lexa asked, slinking her torso through the window and dragging her legs behind her like a mermaid flopping her way up a rock. “I swear you had your eyes closed. I thought you were asleep.”

“Are you kidding?” Clarke let out a small, tired chuckle. “Between your bike’s brakes screeching like a dying coyote and you in that get-up shining like a walking ‘CAUTION, Road Work Ahead,’ sign, you couldn’t even sneak up on Hellen Keller in the middle of an afternoon nap.”

“This vest does kinda hinder my ninja stealth skills, doesn’t it?” Lexa replied, frowning down at the orange safety vest with its thick silver reflective stripes. “But this ‘get-up,’ as you called it, sure makes safety sexy, right?” She asked, jutting her hip out, tilting her face back to let the wind fan her hair out behind her, and running her fingers seductively down the vest’s meshy sides. The pose was meant to be ridiculous, but even in her mockery and sarcasm, there was truth behind her words. Lexa had the body of an athlete... Lean, but curved... Strong, but soft. And no vest, no matter how atrocious, could hide that body beneath it. 

“I mean...” Lexa continued, still modeling. “The vertical stripes are not only good for increased visibility... They’re also slimming. And the orange hue really does wonders for my complexion. Gives me that healthy pregnant woman glow...”

“Pregnant woman glow? You look like a human glowstick.” Clarke interrupted with another chuckle. “Trust me, Lexa... No one’s looking at your complexion when you’ve got that vest on.”

“You’re probably right.” Lexa admitted with a laugh. “Maybe I should start wearing it to school every time I get a bad zit. No one would ever notice it.” Lexa took a seat beside Clarke and pulled her knees into her chest for warmth. 

Clarke pulled a tamale from the dwindling sack beside her and handed it to Lexa. “I can’t believe you rode the ‘Toddler Tromper’ all the way here in this freeze-your-ass-off-cold just for me.” She sighed, her eyes dropping along with her voice. “I shouldn’t have called you.” She mumbled into her lap. “I’m sorry.”

“OK...” Lexa huffed, waving her tamale through the air before her as if brandishing a weapon. “First of all... He wasn’t a toddler. He was like SIX. And I’ve told you all a thousand times... HE ran out in front of ME. It wasn’t even my fault, really. Plus, he was FINE. And you all really need to let that go already. I’ve told you, my bike’s name isn’t ‘Toddler Tromper.’ It’s ‘Safe Passage.’”

“What the hell kind of name is ‘Safe Passage?’” Clarke asked even though she already knew what Lexa’s answer would be, having already teased her on this subject countless times before. 

“It’s like ‘Cool Runnings.’” Lexa answered with an eye roll as Clarke giggled at her frustration. “Peace be the Journey and all that. But you’re distracting me. Where was I? Oh, yeah... Secondly... It’s a beautiful night and what’s a little frost bite? I have no anatomical need for feeling in the tip of my nose, right? I mean... Eating cold tamales under the stars at three-thirty in the morning? Where else would I be?” She laughed before growing serious. “You don’t have to apologize, Clarke.”

“Yes, I do.” Clarke replied, fixing her eyes on Lexa’s, praying Lexa might be able to see the remorse shining in their black centers. “I promised you I would help you teach classes tonight, and I totally spaced it. And then I have the audacity to call you in the middle of the night, bawling like an idiot. You should be pissed at me. And yet... Here you are. You rode that death trap of a bike all the way out here in the freezing cold just to check on my sorry ass.”

“I already told you... It’s no biggie.” Lexa shrugged uncomfortably and pulled her eyes off Clarke, turning her face towards the darkness. “What happened, Clarke?” She asked, her voice only a notch above a whisper.

Clarke followed Lexa’s gaze into the darkness, her eyes tracing the black outlines of trees and rooftops, but not really looking at anything at all. Again she thought of Finn; of his lips and tongue pressing messily against hers, tasting like stale cigarettes and cheap beer and insatiable,urgent desire; of his breath, hot and humid and heavy against her neck; of his teeth, sharper than she had expected, digging into her hipbone and pinching her nipple; of his fingers running greedily along her bare skin, exploring the mountains and valleys and ridges and plains of her collarbones and chest and ribs and tummy before venturing south to tug at her belt buckle. 

“I let him go too far.” Clarke repeated, again feeling the tightness in the back of her throat, the burning in her eyes. She willed herself to hold in the tears.

“Too far...” Lexa echoed her quietly, still staring into the night. She swallowed hard. “Did you... Uhhh... You know...”

“No.” Clarke answered. “I made him stop.”

“He was drunk, wasn’t he? Did he hurt you?”

Clarke didn’t answer right away. She didn’t want to think about everything that had happened earlier that night. But again, the memories were washing over her like a wave she could not outrun.

Finn’s drunken fingers, nimble as they may have been with her bra, had struggled with her belt long enough for Clarke to come to her senses. And it was in that very moment, lying half naked on Finn’s bed, staring up at the shadows roaming his ceiling, that three thoughts had popped into her head: 1. She had forgotten to call Lexa (because, again, she was a shit friend) 2. Under the stench of cigarettes and beer and sweat that was Finn, Finn’s sheets smelled like marijuana and cheap perfume (had some other couple just vacated this bed? Or were there other girls Finn occasionally pulled into its recesses?) 3. Had she remembered to feed Husky (her silver-white Beta fish) this morning? 

These thoughts were completely random and in no way connected. Yet, they all pointed to one irrefutable conclusion: whatever Finn had planned, Clarke was not at all into it. Not emotionally. And not physically. Clarke didn’t want to be in this bed. She didn’t want Finn’s sweaty palms on her skin. And she certainly didn’t want to take her pants off. 

Coming to this rapid realization, Clarke had bolted into a sitting position, pulling her shirt down with one hand while wrapping the other around Finn’s fumbling fingers. 

“No, Finn. Stop.” She had said.

“What’s wrong?” Finn had asked, frowning in confusion, disappointment, and the beginnings of anger.

“I don’t want to do this... I’m not ready.” Clarke had answered.

“Not ready?” Finn had echoed her, the anger in his voice already rising. “We’ve been dating for months, Clarke. I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting. We’re not little kids, you know? Everyone else is doing it.”

Clarke had almost gagged at the use of the cliche line. All of the sudden she felt like the star in one of those cheesy short-films the teachers made you watch in health class to learn about the powers of peer pressure... Episode 13, ‘‘No’ means ‘NO,’” starring Clarke Griffin, followed by ‘Skin and Bones and Carrots: A Look at the Dangers of Anorexia.’ 

“C’mon, Babe... It’s Valentine’s Day.” Finn had whined.

“It’s not a big deal, Clarke.” He had finished, frustrated when Clarke made no response.

‘It’s not a big deal.’ That was the same thing Gina had told her earlier after returning (pink-faced, hair mussed, and skirt slightly askew) to Clarke’s spot in the corner after disappearing into a room with Bellamy. ‘Keeps them happy and coming back for more.’ She had sworn. ‘Plus... It only lasts a couple of minutes anyways.’ She had laughed. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

But, with Finn’s fingers pulling at the front of her pants, it had sure felt like a big deal to Clarke. She didn’t want this. And she didn’t want this with FINN. 

“Finn, stop. I said I’m not ready.” Clarke had repeated.

“Babe...” Finn had replied. “You know I love you, right?” 

Under different circumstances the words might have been romantic. They might have been sweet. But with Finn quite literally trying to get into her pants, Clarke was not wholly convinced. 

“And you love me...” Finn had continued. It wasn’t a question. It was an assumption, spoken as a fact. And Clarke had done nothing either to refute or validate the statement. “So what’s the problem?” 

“I just...” Clarke had mumbled, searching for words while still prying Finn’s fingers off of her. “I just don’t want to. Not yet.”

With that, Finn had let out a disappointed huff, pulled his hands off of her, rolled off the bed, and headed for the door. And with a sigh of guilt and confusion and, most of all, relief, Clarke had thought it was all over. But as Finn reached for the doorknob, he had swiveled on the spot.

“I know why you won’t fuck me.” He had growled, a sudden wildness filling his eyes. “You just fucked Bellamy, didn’t you?”

Clarke had been so taken aback by the sudden accusation, for a moment she had been speechless. “Bellamy?” She had uttered, once she found her voice, struggling to make sense of the implications of Finn’s words. “Finn, what are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about you fucking Bellamy behind my back.” Finn had snarled.

“I haven’t been with Bellamy.” Clarke had blurted out, completely dumbfounded by the mere idea of it. “I haven’t even ever kissed him. I haven’t even held hands with him. I’ve never even THOUGHT about holding hands with him. What are you talking about?” She asked again.

“I’ve seen the way Bellamy looks at you.” Finn had spat.

“Bellamy’s with GINA.” Clarke had argued. 

“Doesn’t mean he wants Gina.” Finn had replied. “I’ve always known he wants you. And now I know for fucking sure you want him too. Where’d you do it? Huh? Did you blow him in my bathroom? Did you spread it for him right here in my fucking bed? In my fucking sheets?” Finn had asked furiously, reaching past Clarke as she sprang nervously to her feet and sidestepped him. Finn had torn the top sheet from his bed, balled it up, and thrown it onto the floor.

“I didn’t touch Bellamy.” Clarke had argued, flustered, shaken, and still completely confused by this entire situation. Only minutes ago, Finn had been mumbling sweet nothings into her ear, calling her ‘Princess’ as he led her up the stairs. How had everything escalated so quickly? “How could I have been with him? I’ve been with you the whole time.”

“Liar.” Finn had spat the word like it tasted dirty in his rotten mouth. “Lying slut. You were gone for like half an hour. You could have fucked him three times over, you were gone for so long. Bet you did. Didn’t you?”

“I told you I had to take Raven and Luna home, Finn.” Clarke had replied, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable. She had never seen Finn this angry. “I was DD, and Luna was sick. She was puking all over your mom’s ficus. And Raven said she had to get to bed since she has some Robotics thing early tomorrow morning. I dropped them off and came right back just like I promised you I would.”

“Yeah, sure.” Finn had said, rolling his wild eyes. “Luna was sick... Good cover. More like you convinced Luna to take Raven home, lied to me, and then snuck off with Bellamy to have a good fuck right under my nose. You think I’m blind? You think I’m stupid? You don’t think I know when you’re fucking lying to me? Huh?”

Clarke hadn’t known what to say... What to do. She had seen Finn get jealous before when he’d had too much to drink. She’d seen him lose his temper and throw a punch or two at other guys. But this was a whole new level of paranoia. This wasn’t the boy who laughed easily and smiled constantly and called her ‘beautiful.’ This wasn’t the boy who kissed her gently on the cheek or held her hand or slipped cute little notes into her locker for her to find between classes. This wasn’t the boy who high-fived the kids with Down Syndrome when they passed in the halls; or the boy who sometimes offered to help Mr. Santos, the janitor, clean up the locker rooms after practice while asking him in Spanish all about his kids back in Mexico; or the boy who held the door open for Ms. Betty, the lunch lady, (a sweet little woman with a tuft of white curls beneath her hairnet who was so hard of hearing you practically had to use improvised sign language to order your meal). This was a version of Finn Clarke had never witnessed before; a version that saddened her and angered her and even frightened her. 

“I swear I haven’t been with Bellamy. Not tonight. Not ever.” Clarke had promised. “I haven’t been with ANYONE. I’m just not ready, Finn. That’s all. I swear it.”

Finn’s eyes had been so filled with fury and fear and sheer wildness that he was like a dangerous animal; a dog cornered with its teeth bared and ears pulled back; a snake coiled and still and ready to strike at any moment. For one long second Clarke had actually found herself wondering if he was about to hit her, and planning her defense. Finn was taller, thicker, stronger than her. But Master Anya always said ‘brains trump muscle every time.’ This version of Finn was all strength and no wisdom or compassion... A three legged stool balancing on one leg, destined to fall with the slightest push. If Finn were to strike, Clarke would be ready for it.

But Finn hadn’t struck. His wild eyes had suddenly calmed like a tree thrashing in a gust of wind then gently swaying as the wind eased and passed. His snarl had drooped into a dejected frown.

“I know, Clarke.” He had said, shaking his head as if only just realizing he had ever lost it. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said all those things. I guess I just don’t like the way Bellamy looks at you sometimes. I know you love me. If you’re not ready... Well, I’ve been waiting a long fucking time. I can wait a little longer. I’m going to go get a drink.” And with that, he had returned his fingers to the doorknob, this time giving it a twist. And it wasn’t until his back had passed through the door that Clarke had realized her hands were balled into fists at her side. When she finally unclenched them, they were still shaking. And as the adrenaline coursing through her system had begun to fade, the tears had finally begun to fall.

For ten minutes Clarke had sat alone on the edge of Finn’s messy bed, breathing in the marijuana stink and the lingering perfume and the unreal reality of all that had just happened. It was too much to process; too much to make sense of. She felt sick. She felt dirty. She felt drained. Most of all, she felt trapped. She had to get out of there.

After trying her best to smudge the tears from her cheeks, Clarke had emerged from Finn’s room to find a party wobbly on its last legs. Most of those still present were either already passed out (strewn at odd angles over the sofas, chairs, floors, or even the stairs) or were busy sloppily making out with one another. Finn had joined a small group still gathered around the keg in the kitchen cheering on Jasper as he chugged from the end of a beer bong. Lanky and uncoordinated, Jasper wasn’t one of the jocks. But he was generally tolerated and even mildly respected amongst them because of his ability to drink just about anyone under the table. 

“Monty...” Clarke had approached the boy standing just outside the edge of the circle, watching at that perfect awkward distance that somehow made him both a part of the group and apart from it. Monty was watching his best friend drinking in the attention as much as the beer, with a strange look on his face, a mixture of boredom, disapproval, and perhaps a little bit of jealousy. “Have you seen Octavia?”

Monty had glanced at Clarke and waved lazily in the direction of a side room. “Yeah, I think she’s in there with Lincoln.” He answered. “But you probably shouldn’t...”

Monty had tried to warn her, but in her anxiousness to leave, Clarke hadn’t been listening. She was already reaching for the doorknob, too dazed by the night’s events to even stop and consider why the door was closed in the first place. She had pulled the door open to find Lincoln shirtless again. Only this time, he wasn’t the only one. 

“Oh my God! I’m sorry! I should’ve knocked!” Clarke had stammered as she pulled the door back shut, flustered, her face flushing, and her brain whirring even faster than it had been before. Octavia had come stumbling out the door a minute later, looking even more flushed and flustered than Clarke felt. 

“Ummm...” Clarke had mumbled. “I was just going to tell you I’m ready to go... You know... If you’re ready.”

“Yeah.” Octavia had mumbled in return. “Sure... Let’s go.”

And they hadn’t spoken another word until Clarke had pulled up to Octavia’s driveway. 

“Look, Clarke...” Octavia had said, her fingers pausing on the handle to her car door. “What you saw... It’s not a big deal, OK? I mean...” She had paused to swallow hard and run her free hand through her braids nervously. “Truth is... I love him. But you can’t tell anyone that, OK? Especially not him. As far as Lincoln’s concerned, I just had too much to drink and made a stupid mistake, OK?”

“Sure, O.” Clarke had replied. “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. But if it makes any difference, I think it’s great... You and Lincoln. He obviously loves you back. Everyone knows that.”

“Naw...” Octavia had flashed her a small, shy smile. “No one knows the half of it. Thanks for the ride.” 

And with that, she had opened the door and left Clarke with nothing but her thoughts. And immediately Clarke’s mind had wandered back to Finn’s bedroom... The place of Finn’s greedy hands and fumbling fingers, his hot breaths and wet tongue, his snarled accusations and wild eyes... The place of her trembling and the place of her tears.

 

Lexa had pulled her gaze from the darkness and was looking at Clarke now, her eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and concern. She was still waiting for Clarke to elaborate. She was waiting for an answer Clarke could not give her. 

“I don’t want to talk about Finn.” Clarke declared, balling the husk of her tamale in her fist and throwing it as far as she could. It disappeared into the darkness below her like a stone sinking into murky waters. “I don’t want to think about tonight at all. I just hate this WHOLE... FUCKING... DAY.”

The compassion and the concern were still in Lexa’s eyes, but now they were cloudy with confusion. Lexa didn’t understand. How could she? Clarke had never told her. Five years... And Clarke had never told anyone.

Clarke sighed and turned her eyes to the night sky. The glittering stars still burned above her, indifferent to the pain that burned inside of her. 

“Lexa...” She spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper, her words floating in the air only a moment before being whisked away on the current of the wind. “Will you tell me a joke? One of your epic, stupid jokes like you used to tell me?”

Lexa looked up at the sky too, sinking back onto her elbows, wriggling her jaw thoughtfully. She was silent for a long moment. 

“OK... I’ve got one.” She said, her lips cocking into a goofy half-smile. “But it’s bad. You can’t say I didn’t warn you... Once, two cupcakes sat in an oven. The first cupcake turned to the other and said, ‘Is it just me? Or is it getting hot in here?’ The second cupcake turned to the first and screamed, ‘AAAHHHH!! A talking cupcake!”’

Clarke blinked at Lexa for one awkward moment, unsure of whether the joke was finished or not. And when Lexa only stared nervously back, Clarke suddenly erupted into laughter. The laughter gushed out of her like water released from a hose, sudden, powerful, and uncontrolled. It rattled through her chest until she was doubled over. It drove the air from her lungs until they burned as sharply as her abs. It wracked over her until the tears were leaking from her eyes again.

“Uhhh....” Lexa said, eyeing Clarke as if worried about her mental health. “It’s an OK joke I guess, but I don’t think it’s quite THAT funny.”

“That joke was horrible, Lexa.” Clarke breathed between alternating laughs and gasps for air. “I’m not laughing at IT. I’m laughing at YOU.”

“Uhhh.... OK. Have YOU been drinking?” Lexa asked with her own laugh.

“No.” Clarke answered, surprised enough by the question to reign the laughter in. She struggled to suck in a deep, calming breath. “I wasn’t drinking.” She added, surprised at the note of defensiveness in her voice.

“Naw, I know...” Lexa replied. “It was just a joke. I know you don’t drink.”

Clarke was completely taken aback. Lexa was absolutely right. Clarke didn’t drink. Ever. And for good reason. But she’d never said anything to anyone about not drinking. 

“How do you know I don’t drink?” She asked.

“What do you mean, ‘How do I know?’” Lexa asked, confused. “You always volunteer to be the designated driver. And when we don’t need a driver or someone else insists you deserve a break, you hold a cup of beer or whatever nastiness everyone’s drinking, but you never actually drink from it.”

Clarke was still surprised. It was true... She often pretended to drink, gripping a cup to blend in with the crowd and sometimes just for the sake of having something to hold in her hand. She never actually drank from it, but she thought no one had ever noticed. Finn certainly hadn’t.

“It’s OK, you know.” Lexa chuckled, apparently amused by the surprise on Clarke’s face. “I’m not judging. I totally get why you pretend to drink. It’s easier that way. You don’t have to deal with all the idiots questioning you or harassing you or daring you as if getting stupid drunk and puking all over yourself is something that actually requires courage.”

Clarke knew Lexa didn’t drink either. Everyone knew that. For the most part, Lexa tended to avoid parties altogether, and after tonight, Clarke couldn’t really blame her. But Clarke had never thought to really ask her about it. She had never wanted to pry, but tonight her curiosity demanded it. 

“How come YOU don’t drink, Lexa?” She asked.

“Are you kidding?” Lexa laughed. “Master Anya would kill me if she ever caught me drinking.”

“Naw... She wouldn’t kill you.” Clarke replied. “She’d probably just spinning-hook-kick you in the face.”

“Yeah...” Lexa agreed. “And make me get the mop out to clean up my own blood afterwards.”

“Still... That doesn’t stop Lincoln or O or Luna or Raven from drinking.” Clarke argued. “It can’t just be the threat of Master Anya’s dirty heel that stops you.”

“There are other reasons.” Lexa admitted.

“Like?”

“You mean besides the fact that it’s illegal?” Lexa laughed. “Well... There’s the other fact that it’s probably the stupidest, most efficient way to kill brain cells, besides bashing your head in with a hammer. And it’s bad for your whole system, especially if you’re an athlete. I mean... As fun as it looks when Luna’s barfing on everything and everyone in her vicinity, or O trips on her own feet and slices her knee open on the sidewalk or Raven has to spend the whole next day popping Advil and wearing earplugs and sunglasses... I think I’ll pass. Plus, I don’t think I’d even like the taste of alcohol. It all smells horrible.”

Lexa made a convincing argument. And yet, Clarke knew her well enough to know (by the way she clenched her jaw, the way her lip twitched towards her ear, the way her eyes glanced off to the side and never quite met Clarke’s) Lexa wasn’t being fully honest. She was holding something back. Then again, so was Clarke.

“So... Why don’t YOU drink?” Lexa asked, masterfully spinning the attention from her back onto Clarke. 

“Pretty much all the reasons you just gave.” Clarke answered. Now SHE was the one avoiding eye contact, staring down at her hands as if a better excuse might present itself in scribbled marker on her palm. She wondered if Lexa could tell (maybe by the way her nostrils flared or the tilt of her eyebrows or something) that she was holding something back too. If she could tell, Lexa didn’t say anything. She didn’t pry, and Clarke knew she could leave it at that. She could change the subject or just let the silence linger. 

But after five years of doing just that, avoiding the subject, hiding in the silence, Clarke suddenly found her lips moving, the words spilling out of her like an overdue confession. 

“After he...” She started in a small voice. Five years had passed; five fucking years and still her throat constricted in protest each time she tried to speak the word. “Died...” She finally choked out. “I made a promise to my father... Well, to me really... That I’d never drink.”

Lexa didn’t say anything. She was watching Clarke, her eyes wide and soft. Clarke knew that Lexa had to be wondering why she would make such a promise. But she also knew Lexa would never ask her to explain. She was waiting patiently, giving Clarke the opportunity to elaborate if she chose to. And for the first time since that fateful night, Clarke found herself wanting... No, not wanting... NEEDING to share.

“My father’s accident...” Clarke began. She knew Lexa already knew that her father had died in a car accident, just as Clarke knew that Lexa’s father had had an aneurysm a few years back. You couldn’t be best friends with someone for four years without the subject of their father’s absence coming up at some point. But neither Clarke nor Lexa had ever shared the details of their fathers’ deaths. Rather, it seemed they had shared an unspoken agreement not to question each other on the topic. It was easier that way. Less painful. But avoiding the pain... Burying it, pushing it aside and trying to ignore it... never seemed to ease it any. 

“It happened on Valentine’s Day.” Clarke continued, staring down at her fingers again, watching her thumbs wriggle against each other nervously. Beside her, Lexa made a sudden, jerky movement and for one instant, Clarke was sure Lexa was going to reach out and take her hand. But at the last second, Lexa pulled her hand back and wrapped her fingers around her ankle instead, hugging her knees in tighter to herself. Either Lexa had changed her mind, or she had never been reaching for Clarke to begin with and Clarke had simply imagined it. Either way, Clarke was surprised at the disappointment churning inside of her. A small gesture... But she could sure use the gentle, reassuring touch of a friend.

“It was a Saturday and my mom was stuck working at the hospital that night. But my father... Well, he was a romantic.” Clarke continued, giving Lexa a small, sad smile. “A Valentine’s day apart from my mother? He wouldn’t stand for it. So he had decided to surprise her. He packed up his gifts... A Tupperware full of chocolate-chip pancakes cut into the shape of hearts and a set of red scrubs with yellow W’s all over it that said, ‘Trust me... I’m a doctor’ on the front, and then in parentheses on the back, ‘Plus I’m also Wonder Woman.’” 

“They were horribly ugly.” Clarke continued with the smallest of chuckles, shaking her head at the memory of her father’s excitement when he found them online. He couldn’t wait to give them to Abby. “My mom would’ve hated them. But he thought they were funny.”

Clarke paused, lifting her eyes to the night sky, tracing the outline of Cassiopeia shining against the black in a bright W like the yellow Ws on the scrubs. “My father always said, ‘If you’re not laughing, you’re not living... You’re just surviving.’ He said laughter was the key to life. Course, he said the same thing about love... And lasagna.” 

“Anyhow...” Clarke sighed. “He filled me up with pancakes... Extra chocolaty with maple syrup, mini-marshmallows, AND whipped cream on top... And told me to pick out a cheesy romantic movie to watch together when he got back. He always wanted to watch Dirty Dancing. I always wanted to watch Contact because of the whole space theme, and even though he insisted it didn’t qualify as a ‘romance,’ he always gave in and let me put it in again and again. So I got the movie ready and popped a bag of popcorn and climbed onto his La-Z-Boy and fast-forwarded through the stupid previews, and waited. And I waited. And I waited. But he never came home.”

“He only made it halfway to the hospital.” Clarke continued as the first tear slid silently down her cheek, tracing the salty paths forged along her skin by the countless tears she had already shed this night. It was a wonder she still had any tears left inside of her. She wiped it away with her shoulder. But it was pointless. Already, more were following in its wake. 

“An ambulance took him the rest of the way.” Clarke spoke into the night, a shiver coursing through her spine and into her fingertips, trying to battle the cold surrounding her and the cold inside of her. “By the time my mom came to get me, I was curled up asleep in his chair. And it was like I never woke up. She drove me to the hospital. Led me to his room. Told me to say goodbye. And it was all like some kind of awful dream I couldn’t wake up from.”

“For days and days, it felt like I was trapped in some nightmare.” Clarke said, running her fingers into her hair and pressing her forehead into her palms. “I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he was gone. I kept thinking this was all some kind of elaborate prank, a horrible joke my dad had set up for a laugh. I kept expecting him to come walking through the door with a box of donuts or a giant sack of jelly beans, chuckling and calling out to me in his Mickey Mouse voice, telling me to fire up the movie.”

“And when I finally realized he was never coming home, I climbed back into his La-Z-Boy and curled up in a ball and played the movie three times in a row, crying so hard I couldn’t even see the screen. And when I ran out of tears, I climbed out of his chair for the last time and I pulled Contact from the player and broke it into pieces. And I made the promise, right then and there, that I’d never, ever drink. Because the other driver... The one who swerved out of his lane and smashed his car into my father’s head on... He was a seventeen-year-old boy who had been drinking with his buddies at some stupid Valentine’s Day party.”

“My father ended up unconscious on a ventilator.” Clarke spat. “The kid got a broken arm, a suspended license, and a bad hangover. And since he was a minor, he walked with three months in juvie and a hundred hours community service, probably picking up trash off the roadside.” Clarke finished bitterly.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The only sound filling the void between them was the swaying of branches in the wind, creaking like old bones. Lexa stared at her with eyes glazed by sadness, and Clarke waited for her to part her lips and say ‘I’m sorry...’ The two words everyone spoke when they heard a sad story and didn’t know what else to say... The two words that held absolutely no power and never changed a thing. 

Lexa pulled her hands from her ankles and stretched her long, lean, legs out before her. Again she made a movement as if to reach for Clarke’s hand. Again she pulled her arm back, this time leaning backwards onto her elbows. Again Clarke felt a surge of disappointment.

Lexa pulled her eyes off of Clarke and turned them heavenwards. And she opened her mouth, but the words that she spoke were not at all what Clarke had expected.

“My mother’s an alcoholic.” Lexa said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “She started drinking the day they put my father six feet underground. And I don’t think she’s missed a night since.” 

“When I was little,” She continued. “Whenever I should have gotten into trouble... Like when I refused to eat whatever healthy green thing he put on my plate, or I made up crazy excuses to try to get out of doing my chores, or the day I tried to superglue the TV back together after I knocked it off its stand by practicing my back-kicks in the house, or that one time he caught me trying to hide an old, beat-up, stray Black Lab in my closet...” Lexa paused to chuckle sadly at the memory. “I was convinced I could raise that dog in secret forever. I barely made it two hours before my father heard her barking. Course it only took another two hours for me to convince him to let me keep her. He fell as much in love with Grounder as I was. Anyway... Whenever I got into trouble, instead of spanking me, my dad used to laugh and kiss me on the forehead and shake his head in wonder and say I was JUST like my mother.”

“He always said it like it was a compliment. And back then I was proud to be like her... Sassy, stubborn, determined. But now...” She paused to run a hand through her wind-teased, helmet hair and drag it slowly down her tired face. “Well... The truth is... I don’t drink because I don’t want to be just like her. I don’t want to turn into my mother.” 

Clarke didn’t know what to say. Four years they had been best friends. All this time and Clarke had never put it all together... The fact that Lexa never invited Clarke over to hang out at HER house; the fact that Clarke knew just about as much about Lexa’s mother as she did about her deceased father, which was pretty much nothing; the fact that Lexa always blushed and mumbled excuses for her mother’s absence at Tae Kwon Do tournaments or school plays or holiday get-togethers, (‘my mom has a complicated work schedule’ or ‘my mom’s not feeling well’).

Clarke had never questioned it. She knew Lexa’s family didn’t have a lot of money; that Lexa rode a bike because she had no car; that sometimes her clothes were too small, her school supplies tattered and worn; that Lexa didn’t have the nice laptop and smartphone and tablet and Nikes that Clarke took for granted. But Lexa and Clarke never really spoke about these things.

It was easier to talk about the silly, inconsequential things; to joke about Octavia and Lincoln’s flirting or Raven’s obsession with chemistry; to stress about history quizzes and English essays; to argue over whether the Beatles or the Rolling Stones were more iconic or trade theories on who might die next on the Walking Dead. All those hours of talking about nothing... Clarke figured she knew Lexa better than just about anyone. And only now was she realizing that there were entire parts of Lexa that she barely knew at all.

Clarke stared at Lexa, her eyes following the single fat tear rolling down her soft cheek. She felt like she was seeing her more clearly than ever, glimpsing a part of her she had never seen before. It was like walking down a hallway day after day for years and then one day suddenly realizing there’s a picture hanging on the wall that you’ve passed a thousand times without ever paying any attention to; and once you’ve stopped to look at it properly, you realize it’s the most hauntingly beautiful painting you’ve ever seen and you can only stare at it in awe, scratching your head in wonder at the fact you’ve never noticed it before. 

And Clarke suddenly realized she didn’t just want to know the Lexa on the surface. She wanted to know every hidden and forgotten, every deep and dark and beautiful, part of her.

Lexa turned her eyes to Clarke and, realizing she’d been staring, Clarke flicked her own eyes away. She hoped Lexa didn’t notice her blushing in the darkness.

“Your father did Mickey Mouse impressions?” Lexa asked.

Clarke’s eyes shot back to Lexa’s face. She was surprised by the question. “Yeah.” She answered with a soft laugh. “All the time. He could get his voice higher than I ever could.”

“My father used to do Donald Duck.” Lexa said, her small smile cocked to one side and her brows furrowed at the coincidence. “My mom used to yell at him because he would get spit all over the place. But it always made her laugh. But that was my father... He was always trying to make us laugh. He’s the reason I know so many god-awful jokes.” She chuckled sadly.

“Even back then... Before he died, I mean... My mother used to have sad spells.” Lexa continued. “I was just a kid and I didn’t recognize them for what they were. It was just a part of life, like how some days it was sunny and some days it rained... Some days mom was happy and some days she was sad. I figured all mothers sometimes spent a whole day lying in bed, too tired to work or play or even eat. But on those days, my dad was always there to help pull her out of it.”

“And on the good days...” Lexa smiled at the memories. “On the good days, he was always joking around, like it was his self-assigned duty in life to make my mother smile, to make her laugh. And I was just the beneficiary of it. Sometimes he would dip his fingers in whatever he was cooking... Guacamole or marinara or brownie batter... And he would chase the two of us around and around the kitchen. If he caught me first, I would get a dab of food smeared on my forehead or my cheek and a massive tickling. But it always ended with my mother shrieking in laughter as he caught her, streaked the food over her lips, and then proceeded to kiss away the mess he made.”

“She always pretended to hate it when my dad did goofy things like that. But he wasn’t fooled and neither was I. It was the things like that kept my mother out of her bed. It was my dad who kept the sad days at bay.” 

“Sounds like he was a great dad.” Clarke commented.

“Yeah... He was.” Lexa agreed with a sigh. “Sounds like your dad was pretty awesome too. I bet the two of them would have gotten along just fine.”

“Yeah...” Clarke half laughed, half sighed at the idea. She imagined the two of them sitting in the waiting area at Tae Kwon Do, cracking jokes with Master Anya and heckling as their daughters took turns getting kicked in the head by Aden. “I bet they would have been best buds. You still miss him don’t you? Your father?”

Lexa didn’t hesitate a single moment. “Every day.” She said. “Every damn day.” 

“Me too.” Clarke whispered. “Every goddamned day.”

Lexa let out a long breath and sank from her elbows flat onto her back, her eyes fixed on the glimmering lights above. “The stars remind me of him.” She spoke. “We used to lay under them for hours. We’d watch the shooting stars and make stupid wishes on them.”

“My dad and I used to do the same thing.” Clarke laughed, plunking down onto her own back beside Lexa, feeling the cold of the roof shingles cut through the back of her sweater as if she were laying on a block of ice. But she ignored the cold. Freezing or not, there was nowhere else she would rather be in this moment. “We used to wish for a snow day, a blizzard in L.A..”

“Yeah?” Lexa laughed. “We used to wish for a heatwave in the middle of the winter. You ever get your snow day?”

“No... Not even close. You ever get your heatwave?”

“Once, after we made the wish, the temperature rose fifteen degrees over night.” Lexa answered with a grin. “But that only put it at forty-two degrees, so... I guess it depends on how you define ‘heatwave.’”

“Forty-two degrees sounds pretty good to me right now.” Clarke admitted, pulling her blanket tighter around her. She rolled onto her side to face Lexa and propped herself onto an elbow. “If you see a shooting star, let me know.” 

Lexa chuckled, but her voice was tinged with sadness when she spoke again. “You know... I think this is the first time I’ve really looked at the night sky since my father died. It always hurt too much to look at the stars without him by my side. But tonight... Well... I’d forgotten how beautiful they are.”

Though Lexa had yet to complain about the cold, she was visibly shivering in her thin sweater and obnoxiously orange vest.She had her arms folded over her chest for warmth. Clarke stared at the hand she had sworn had almost reached out for her own twice tonight, and it only took her a moment to decide. 

She reached out and took that hand in her own, weaving her fingers between Lexa’s ice-cold ones. She tugged the arm until Lexa, completely surprised, allowed her to unravel it from the other and wrap it around her shoulders. Then she draped her blanket over the two of them, scooched in close enough to feel the warmth of Lexa’s side against her own, and rested her head against Lexa’s shoulder. She stared up at the sky and listened to the soft pounding of Lexa’s heart and the quiet rush of the cold night air flowing in and out of Lexa’s chest. 

“Yeah...” Clarke agreed, as a shooting star cut through the darkness above them. “Beautiful.”

And for the first time in five years, Clarke ended the annual misery of Valentine’s Day enveloped in a moment of happiness.


	25. Awakening

Chapter 25  
Awakening  
OR  
Oh Shnikes

LEXA

Clarke entwines her soft, warm fingers into my own tingling ones. She pulls my arm until it is wrapped around her. She nuzzles her head into the hollow of my collar bone.

And I feel something break inside of me. 

It breaks. It shatters. It explodes. And it is a wonder that no sound escapes me. It is a wonder that my very skin doesn’t catch fire. Because I watch a falling star streak across the darkness and I think to myself that that ball of flame and light and chaos has nothing on whatever is happening inside of me. 

Lightning and thunder; fire and light; chaos and commotion; the earth trembling and tearing apart at her seams; the sky breaking open, unleashing raging wind and relentless rain; stars bursting, exploding into blinding light and then collapsing into utter blackness... None of it can compare to what is happening inside the cavern of my chest, the crowded space housing heart and soul. 

And it blindsides me like Master Anya’s spinning-hook-kick to the jaw. It hits me like a stray bullet right to the gut. And I’m glad I’m laying safely on my back, because were I on my feet, I’d be reeling right now, collapsing to the ground in helpless shock. 

Perhaps I should have seen this coming. After all, I cannot say I wasn’t warned. But the truth is I never could have dodged this blow. The gun was fired years ago. The bullet found it’s mark immediately. All this time it’s been lodged in me, piercing further and further into my flesh, carving its way so deep into me I could never hope to pull it out. But it’s only in this instant that I finally feel the hit.

And my heart is racing. And I am sweating despite the cold. And the frozen air feels too thin in my lungs. And all I can think is, ‘Oh Shnikes!’ Anya was right, completely spot-on correct...

I am irrefutably, irremediably, irrevocably, irr-insert-appropriately-powerful-adjective-here-ly, in love with Clarke. I think maybe I always have been. I think maybe I always will be. 

I am in love, in love, in love with Clarke.

And all I can think is, ‘Oh shnikes. Oh shnikes. Oh shnikes.’


	26. Knock Knock

Chapter 26  
Knock Knock  
OR  
Cheap Roses, Cheap Apologies, and Cheap Mouthwash

CLARKE

“Zip me up?” 

Clarke pulled her throbbing eyes from her trigonometry textbook, thankful for any distraction, no matter how small. Abby was standing before her, clasping her hair, the back of her dress dangling halfway open. Clarke snagged the zipper and pulled it closed.

“How do I look?” Abby asked, letting her hair spill over her shoulders and spinning on the spot. She was wearing a strapless dress the color of merlot that gently hugged her torso then cascaded loosely from her hips to the edges of her knee caps. Clarke tried not to notice the pearls dangling from her earlobes or strung around her neck. She knew the matching jewelry set had been a gift from her father. She still remembered helping him pick it out from amongst the opals and diamonds and sapphires all glinting in their glass case one Christmas Eve so many years ago. 

“You look gorgeous...” Clarke admitted with a small frown and a shake of her head. It had taken her a while to adjust to the idea of Abby dating again; the prospect of some strange man stepping into their lives, trying to fill an absence Clarke knew could never be filled. But she also knew that the alternative was a life of loneliness for her mother, and her father would have never stood for that. So, slowly, Clarke had come around to the idea, and she tried to be (if not quite encouraging) at least supportive. Still, sometimes it hurt just a little to see her mother looking as good (if not better) in a dress than she did. “You look way too hot to be a mother.” 

“Thanks, Hun.” Abby grinned, scurrying off to the bathroom to apply the finishing touches to her make-up. She left the door hanging wide open and Clarke could hear her rummaging through the medicine cabinet and hurriedly plunking things onto the counter. 

“Who did you say this guy is, again?” Clarke asked. “Is it the orthodontist? What was his name... Gerald? Jerry? No... Gaylord?” Clarke struggled to remember his name, but could only remember how perfectly straight his blindingly white teeth were, the only part of his face that didn’t look like the ‘before shot’ on a plastic surgeon’s website. The man was, to put it nicely, unfortunate looking. When he had introduced himself and held out a hand to shake, all Clarke could do was wonder if God had maybe had one too many brewskis before assembling this poor guy’s face.

“Or, wait...” Clarke added. “Is it the ‘outdoor enthusiast’ again? Timmy? Terrence? Tobias?” 

“Tobias?” Abby laughed. “Gaylord? Their names were Gary and Tom, Sweetheart. Just Tom. And no... It’s neither of them.”

“What happened to Gary?” Clarke asked. “He seemed nice enough.”

“Uhhh...” Abby replied, peeking her head through the door so Clarke could see her raised eyebrows. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the man didn’t QUITE match his profile picture.”

“You’re so shallow, Mom.” Clarke snickered. “Maybe he had a good heart beneath all of that.”

“He was boring.” Abby answered, disappearing through the door again. Clarke could tell by the slur of her words that she was streaking on a layer of lipstick. “Even by dentist standards. Now THOMAS... Well, he was a lot more fun. And not too hard on the eyes. But it turns out that he has so much time for camping and kayaking and hiking because he is... Quote, unquote... Currently in between careers and exploring financial opportunities. In other words, he’s unemployed and broke and sleeps in a tent in the woods most of the time because it beats sleeping in his car in a parking lot.” 

“Hmmm....” Clarke mumbled, reluctantly pulling her trig book back onto her lap. “Poor Thomas. So... Who’s this new guy, then?”

“His name is Marcus.” Abby answered. “He’s a librarian.”

“A librarian?” Clarke replied, scrunching her nose into her face in judgmental surprise. “That sounds more boring than Gaylord, if you ask me. He’s probably a majorly awkward introvert with social anxiety.”

“He’s not a public librarian.” Abby clarified. “He works for a school. I haven’t met him yet, but he seems real nice. Likes to garden... Cook... Read...”

“Again...” Clarke laughed. “Majorly awkward introvert.”

“Maybe...” Abby admitted. “But from his messages it seems like he’s really intelligent and has a good sense of humor. So... He’s worth a try, right? I just hope he’s trimmed his beard down a bit since he took his profile pic.”

“I don’t know...” Clarke teased. “A librarian with a wild beard... I’m not sure this guy can be trusted. Where’s he taking you?”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Clarke repeated her. “As in some fancy French restaurant with a name I can’t pronounce? Or a surprise as in, ‘welcome to my creepy cabin in the middle of the woods. Would you like to see my chainsaw in the shed out back before I make you dinner?’”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Honey.” Abby laughed. “I’m not getting my hopes up... I’m sure it won’t be anything THAT exciting. It’ll probably be the Spaghetti Factory and froyo. Besides... Librarians don’t know how to run chainsaws.”

“I’m pretty sure the ones who moonlight as psychotic serial killers do.” Clarke retorted. “Just... If he starts driving you through some dark back-country roads and you lose cell reception, promise me you’ll open the car door and ninja-roll yourself out of there.”

“OK, Honey... I promise.” Abby laughed. “I’ll leap right out of the moving vehicle and dash into the cornfields to hide. Maybe a handsome farmer will rescue me and the night won’t be a total wash after all.”

“Just as long as the farmer doesn’t offer to take you into the barn and show you HIS chain- ”

Clarke’s words were cut off by a sudden knock on the door. 

“Oh my God!” Abby shrieked. “That can’t be him already! What time is it?”

“Relax, Mom.” Clarke laughed, tossing her textbook aside and pushing herself off the sofa. “It’s probably just Lexa. She’s supposed to come over to study.”

“If it’s him, you gotta stall for me!” Abby whimpered in a panicked voice, now running a brush over her cheeks to add an artificial layer of rouge to her already flushed face. “Two minutes... I just need two more minutes.”

Clarke strolled down the hall and pulled open the front door. She was wrong... It wasn’t Lexa.

“Mr. Kane?” She stammered, completely shocked by the image of Mr. Kane standing on the doorstep before her in black slacks and a crisp, white shirt, clutching a bouquet of crimson tulips that perfectly matched his tie. 

“Clarke?” Mr. Kane, replied, blinking at her in surprise for a moment before sweeping his gaze over the doorway and welcome mat as if searching for a clue as to whether or not he had found the right address. “What are you doing here?” He blurted out, immediately looking like he regretted asking the question even as the words passed over his lips. 

“I live here.” Clarke replied blankly.

“I suppose that was the obvious answer.” Mr. Kane spoke with an awkward chuckle. “Abby mentioned she had a daughter in high-school, but I never realized...” He paused, his words fading into a mumble. “If I’d known I’d be seeing you, I would have brought some Cheetos.” He said with another awkward chuckle, holding out his free hand as if to prove that he, in fact, did not have any Cheetos to offer.

Clarke was still blinking at the man, still awash in the surprise of seeing him somewhere other than behind a desk covered in stacks and stacks of books balanced precariously atop each other as if held in place by a combination of magic and stern words. His clothes were way too formal, his beard even a little wilder than she remembered it being. But the kindness was still in his eyes and in his smile. 

“That’s alright...” Clarke answered with her own awkward chuckle. “I’m afraid I don’t have any pudding to offer you anyways. But we might have some jello snacks in the fridge if you’re interested. I suppose I should let you in, instead of making you stand out here in the cold.”

She led him down the hall towards the kitchen. “My mom’s not quite ready. Do you want something to drink? Let’s see... We have water or...” She surveyed the sad contents of their fridge. She gave the orange juice a shake. Of course it was practically empty. Of course Abby had put it back into the fridge as if it were worth saving; as if she were anticipating running across a recipe that called for a single thimble of juice. “Uhhh... I could make you chocolate milk.” She suggested, feeling as childish as the girl who had exchanged snacks daily with this man years before.

“Water would be sublime.” Mr. Kane smiled. 

Clarke pulled a glass from the cupboard, discretely wiped it with her sleeve, and filled it from the tap. She plunked a couple ice cubes in it, then, running out of tasks to occupy her, offered the glass to Mr. Kane.

“You know...” Mr. Kane began as he reached for the water. “I’ve missed thwarting the rules every day with our little clandestine food exchanges in the library. It’s always hard to see students graduate and move on, knowing most of them I will never cross paths with again. But it was particularly hard to watch you go. Like losing a friend. But, my mum always said the things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end...”

“If not always in the way we expect.” Clarke finished for him, smiling at the Luna Lovegood quote. It had been years since the two of them had played this game. So much had changed with the passing seasons. Yet, here he was, Mr. Kane, standing before her wearing the same amicable smile he had shared with her when she was just a shy little girl in desperate need of a friend. And for a moment it seemed like nothing had changed at all. For just one moment Clarke almost felt small again. 

“Wow!” Mr. Kane suddenly exclaimed, looking past Clarke. “You look absolutely gorgeous!” 

Clarke craned her neck to see Abby strut into the room looking radiant enough to wipe the smile off Clarke’s face. Abby was more than beautiful... She was downright sexy. Clarke couldn’t deny it. But that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. She felt like she was in some bizarre Freaky Friday role reversal. Wasn’t it supposed to be the MOTHER who shook her head disapprovingly at her teenage daughter as she ran off in a miniskirt and pumps clutching the arm of some punk in a leather jacket and saggy jeans? She wondered if she should give them a curfew.

“Thanks,” Abby smiled seductively, accepting both the compliment and the bouquet of tulips. “I see you’ve met my daughter, Clar-”

“Clarke?” A new voice cut over Abby’s, drifting towards them through the hall as two sneakers rounded the corner. “The door was open. I didn’t know if I should knock. Wow... Ms. Griffin... You look stunn- Mr. Kane?”

“Lexa?” Mr. Kane answered, blinking in surprise again.

“Wait?” Abby cut in, confused. “You two know each other?”

“I was best friends with his...” Lexa began before her words trailed off into awkward silence.

Kane ended it quickly with a chuckle and a flash of his smile. “Both Clarke and Lexa used to interrupt the monotony of my days in the library with pudding... And cheesy jokes.”

“Pudding and cheesy jokes?” Abby echoed him, still confused.

“Mr. Kane and his Fritos and Cheetos and Doritos are the reason I almost didn’t make weight at States that year.” Lexa laughed. 

“Fritos and Cheetos and Doritos?” Abby repeated, bemused.

“He can tell you all about it tonight, Mom.” Clarke spoke, snagging Lexa by the forearm as Lexa’s gaze flashed over Mr. Kane’s crisp shirt and tie, then rolled over Abby’s dress, and finally landed on the bouquet of flowers still clutched in Abby’s hands. Her sea green eyes widened in comprehension. 

Before Clarke could pull her away, Lexa spoke again. “Are you two...”

“Headed out?” Clarke finished for her, tugging awkwardly at the captured forearm. “Yes. They are. We should leave them be. Come on, Lexa. Trigonometry awaits. You two have fun.” 

In that old-fashioned, chivalrous manner, Mr. Kane extended his own arm for Abby to latch onto. “What do you say, Abby? Shall we?” He caught Clarke’s eye as Abby accepted his arm. “Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” He said with a wink.

Clarke knew she was the only one who recognized the words as Dumbledore’s. But their power was no less lost on Abby. She flashed an excited smile at Clarke as she allowed Mr. Kane to lead her around the corner. “Don’t you two study too hard, now!” She called as she disappeared down the hall.

“Mr. Kane and your mom?” Lexa asked with a smirk and one cocked brow as Clarke flopped back onto the sofa, yelping softly as the corner of her Trig book stabbed her in the ass. 

“Believe me,” Clarke answered, tugging the book out from beneath her and flipping the damn thing back open. “I was just as surprised as you are.”

“He’s a good guy.” Lexa said, tossing her book bag onto the floor and kneeling to rummage through it. 

“Yeah, he is.” Clarke agreed. She was still wrestling with mixed emotions, unsure of how to feel about the whole situation. Part of her (perhaps that selfish part of her) deeply hoped her mother would never remarry. Part of her reasoned that if her mother HAD to find someone, Mr. Kane might not be so bad. In a way, in her life, he had already been a bit of a father to her, a bit of a friend. 

“Hey...” Clarke added, just remembering what had sparked her curiosity earlier. “What were you saying about being best friends with someone? Someone Mr. Kane knew?”

“Oh... Uh...” Lexa mumbled, her head still buried in her backpack. “I used to be best friends with his daughter... Costia.” Lexa paused as if it pained her just to speak the name. 

“Costia?” Clarke repeated. “You’ve never mentioned her before.” Clarke commented, trying to keep her voice cool and conversational, despite the fact that her stomach was constricting strangely, uncomfortably. It took her a moment to realize what she was feeling. Jealousy. “What do you mean you USED to be best friends? What happened?” 

“Well...” Lexa pulled her head from the folds of her bag, but her eyes still did not meet Clarke’s. “She died.” She said flatly, swallowing hard. “Leukemia. She was nine.”

“That’s terrible.” Clarke said, now feeling terrible herself for her silly bout of jealousy. She thought of Mr. Kane. ‘I read all seven Harry Potters to my daughter.’ He had once told her. She had never asked him anything more about his daughter. Not her name. Not her age. Not what school she went to or even which Harry Potter character was her favorite. There was no way she could have known the girl he spoke of had already passed from his life long ago... That the reason he no longer read to her wasn’t that she was old enough to consider such things as childish, but rather that she had died, still a child. Clarke wondered if the reason Mr. Kane had the books practically memorized was because he still spent his nights reading aloud from their pages, his voice fading into empty space with no ears to hear it. Clarke knew what it was like to be a child who lost a parent. Kane had suffered the exact opposite, equally tragic injustice. She wondered if their pain was the same, or if one hurt even worse than the other. She wondered if you could even quantify or compare such vast pain, such horrible loss.

“Yeah.” Lexa agreed with a sad sigh. “It was terrible.”

Clarke sensed it in the hollowness of Lexa’s voice, the bowing of her shoulders as if yielding beneath an enormous weight, the droop of her gaze, fixed on the carpet and nothing at all. Lexa was still broken by the memories.

Lexa had never once spoken of this entire piece of her past, the childhood that had shaped the person now sitting before Clarke. Clarke considered her, again feeling like she was discovering a whole other part of the girl she’d thought she’d known as fully as she knew herself. Yet here was another bleeding wound Clarke had never so much as glimpsed. Did Lexa keep these parts of her buried so impossibly deep Clarke could never reach them on her own? Or had they always lingered just below the surface and Clarke had just never bothered to stop and look properly?

It was true that Clarke sometimes couldn’t read Lexa as well as she knew Lexa could read her. Lexa noticed when Clarke pretended to drink. She noticed when Clarke pretended to need no one and when she pretended to be just fine, even as she was breaking inside. She always seemed to sense Clarke’s pain as clearly as if it were her own. And she always knew just how to ease it, from the very first day she had stumbled into the classroom, and into Clarke’s life, her backpack exploding into a mess on the floor. Clarke had felt like her own life was like that mess on the linoleum, a heap of scattered pieces spilling in all directions, ricocheting and breaking apart. And since that moment, Lexa had been helping Clarke to gather all of the pieces of herself and put them back together again. She was there to tell god-awful jokes whenever Clarke needed a laugh. She was there to sit with her when she needed to cry. She was there to listen and there to speak and there to just lay beside her in the frigid darkness under the silent stars and not say anything at all. 

Sometimes Clarke felt like Lexa’s green eyes could pierce right through her and see into her very soul, the parts of her she tried to hide from everyone else, even the parts of her she tried to hide from herself. And Clarke liked to believe that she could see into Lexa just as clearly. But the truth was that Lexa’s green eyes were like murky waters and Clarke was only now starting to realize the magnitude of the depths concealed beneath them.

Clarke was reminded of one rainy afternoon during her first Spring in Oregon. Bored out of their minds from hours of studying for Ms. Indra’s infamous mid-terms, she and Lexa had wandered out of the house and down to the park. Day after day of drizzling rain had swollen the usual mud puddle of a pond and gravelly gutter of a stream into a body of water large enough to catch the attention of a handful of mallards. For a while Clarke had watched the spectacle of ducks ducking their heads into the water, their feathered butts bobbing absurdly on the water’s surface like corks while their bright, webbed feet pedaled fruitlessly at the air. But it was not long before Clarke had lost interest and wandered off to find Lexa.

“Lexa.” She had called when she finally spotted her sitting on a wet, mossy log beside the water’s edge. “What are you doing? It’s raining. Let’s go.”

“Shh...” Lexa had whispered in return, staring down at her hands. “Hold still.” 

Slowly, carefully, as if grasping a fragile treasure, Lexa had lifted her hand towards Clarke, a small smile playing on her face as Clarke finally saw what had caught the girl’s attention. A tiny dragonfly was perched on Lexa’s long, slender finger, it’s wings shimmering a silver-orange in the gray afternoon light.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Lexa had asked as Clarke reached a tentative finger out to stroke the tip of the insect’s wings. The dragonfly burst into movement at Clarke’s touch, fluttering frantically into flight and zooming away from the girls, skimming the surface of the water and disappearing into a patch of reeds.

“Where did you find it?” Clarke had asked.

“They’re everywhere.” Lexa had answered, gesturing at the little pond before them. “Sit down and look for yourself.”

Clarke had plunked down beside Lexa, grimacing at the wet cold soaking through the seat of her jeans. She had gazed out at the pond, little more than a stagnant mud pit surrounded by weeds and reeds and scraggly cattails. She didn’t see anything. She rubbed her hands together for warmth. She swatted at bugs. She tapped the toes of her rain boots together and apart and together again, sighing impatiently and over-dramatically. All the while Lexa stared out at the pond as entranced as if she were watching a particularly complex episode of Scooby Doo. Clarke was about to grab her by the arm and pull her up from the log when Lexa pointed excitedly at the far edge of the pond.

“Look... A nutria!” She had whispered. And Clarke, confused, had followed her finger to see the crown of an ugly, furry head peeking out of the water. The rodent, looking like the freakish offspring of an overgrown rat and a scrawny beaver, scurried up the bank and into the underbrush with a swish of its possum-like tail. And it was only then, as Clarke stared into the weeds in which the creature had disappeared, that the whole pond had burst into life before her eyes. 

Lexa had been right. There were dragonflies everywhere. There were mosquito-eaters skipping over the surface of the water like spiders on a web. There were frogs floating half-submerged, perfectly still, their wide eyes peering out of the water in search of their next meal. There were butterflies fluttering around the edges of the bank and tiny silver fish darting just below the surface. This tiny pond, nothing more than a swollen mud pit to Clarke’s wandering eye, held an entire world contained within itself. Lexa had known that from the beginning. She had seen the life teeming below the surface.

Now Clarke felt as if Lexa was just like that pond, holding an entire private world just below the soft shell of her skin. And Clarke wanted nothing more than to sit in silence beside her until Clarke’s eyes opened up to the beauty and the mystery it had overlooked a thousand times. She wanted to learn how to see things clearly. She wanted to learn how to see Lexa clearly. She suddenly wanted to know all about the depths inside of Lexa that she had never stopped to consider. She wanted to know about Costia. She wanted to know about Lexa’s dead father and her absent mother. She wanted to know every piece of Lexa, the joys and the pleasures and the pains, the heartbreaks and the trials and the fears, the dreams and the doubts and the demons, and every little thing that had molded her into the person Clarke knew, or thought she knew. 

But it seemed Lexa didn’t want to speak of her ghosts any longer. “So...” She said, finally pulling her Trig textbook out and settling on the floor below Clarke with her back propped against the base of the sofa. “Trigonometry... What page are we on?”

Lexa wanted to change the subject. She did not want to dwell on the pain of her past. And that was something Clarke fully understood. Clarke knew that if the situation was reversed, Lexa would probably comfort her with some stupid joke. She needed levity, distraction. So Clarke did her best. 

“Turn to page three-hundred-and-ninety-four.” She answered in a terrible impression of Alan Rickman.

“What’s with the butchered Australian accent?” Lexa asked, flipping through the pages of her textbook before turning her head to give Clarke a quizzical look. “The pages only go up to three-oh-seven.” She said. Clearly, the reference had gone right over her head.

“I know...” Clarke laughed. “It was a joke. And that was a BRITISH accent, by the way. It’s from Harry Potter... duh.”

Lexa just stared blankly at Clarke, clearly judging her. And Clarke knew she had every right to. Clarke was not the joke-teller Lexa was. But she thought at least Mr. Kane would have appreciated it. 

“Never mind.” Clarke said, smiling and shaking her head. “It’s page two-fourteen.”

“Two-fourteen.” Lexa echoed her, flipping to the page and propping the book against her knees. “Word problems... Oh boy, oh boy.”

 

***...***

LEXA

“A shopper pauses in an aisle beneath a brand of mouthwash priced at half off.” I read aloud, struggling to add enthusiasm to my flat voice. “The mouthwash is at the top of the shelf, placed at a forty-eight degree angle from the point at which the shopper stands, exactly three feet from the base of the shelf. If the shopper is five-foot-five-inches on her tip-toes and her arm extends an additional eighteen inches, will she be able to reach the mouthwash?” 

“Who the fuck cares?” Clarke says, rubbing at her temples as if we’ve been going at this for hours, even though it’s only the second problem we’ve attempted so far. “If she can’t reach it... The way I see it... She has three options: A. Climb the fucking shelf. B. Ask a clerk to climb the fucking shelf for her. Or C. Shell out the extra ninety-nine cents for a different brand that she can actually reach. Or better yet... Option D: Forget about the mouthwash altogether. I mean... Who even uses mouthwash, anyway? Doesn’t this shopper know that mouthwash, even theoretical mouthwash, can seriously damage your taste buds? She should just grab a pack of gum. They keep gum at a level any four-year-old could reach.”

“You make a convincing argument, Clarke.” I laugh, rolling my eyes at her ornery ramblings to hide the fact that I find them utterly adorable. “But somehow I think Mr. Sinclair might not accept, ‘She should buy gum’ as the final answer.”

“Aww... I think Mr. Sinclair has a sense of humor buried somewhere deep inside.” Clarke argues. “I think he’s like one of those candy Easter eggs. You know... With the hard shell, but the gooey caramel inside. I bet he’s a softie deep down. He’d probably just laugh.”

“Yeah... He’d laugh... While he failed you.” I say. “Mr. Sinclair even gives Raven a hard time. I mean... He makes Ms. Indra look like a softie.”

“Ha.” Clarke chuckles with a soft smile, her eyes glazing over, lost in memory. “Ms. Indra WAS a softie. I don’t know why we were all so terrified of her. Man... Sixth grade... Those were the days, huh?”

“Yeah... Real good times.” I chuckle. “Back when converting fractions to decimals was the hardest math we were ever asked to do. Think someday we’ll be sitting in some college dorm reminiscing about how laid-back and cheerful Mr. Sinclair was and how easy it was when all we had to do was decide whether to use Sine or Cosine or Tangent?”

“God, I hope not.” Clarke laughs. “I’m not planning on taking ANY math in college if I can get away with it. But here’s a tangent for you... Why the hell are you still sitting on the floor when there’s plenty of room up here on the couch?” Clarke asks, motioning to the spot on the cushions beside her. 

Clarke’s ‘couch’ is small enough to be better classified as a ‘love-seat.’ It’s been well loved over the years, and now its cushions sag, inevitably sending its occupants slowly lilting toward its center, as if pulled by some mysterious gravitational force lurking in the crack between the cushions. I’ve spent hours and hours sitting beside Clarke in it’s cushy depths watching cheesy action movies or studying the Holocaust or sketching together, our legs pressed against each other by gravity. It never once phased me. But now, the thought of being that close to her... Close enough to feel the heat of her body coursing through my own... Well, it makes my mouth go dry and my heart race and my chest tighten to the point that I fear I won’t be able to breathe. That is why I am on the floor: so I can breathe.

“I’m fine.” I say, hoping she cannot see the pink rising in my cheeks from her position behind me.

“Well... You’re too far away.” Clarke states. “How am I supposed to copy your work when your sitting a mile away?”

And before I can answer, she slithers like an animal off the couch, plunking down on the floor beside me so that she is pressed against my side.And I can feel the warmth of her body coursing through my own. And my mouth goes dry and my heart races and my chest tightens. And I can’t breathe.

I scooch over to create space between us, the heat rising in my cheeks. I feel like someone just cranked up the furnace. Clarke gives me a quizzical look.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asks.

“What?” I sputter, avoiding her eyes, looking down at the blurry triangles and diagrams and formulas riddling the page of my textbook.

“Why are you acting so weird?” She asks, frowning at me.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m sweating now beneath my thin jacket. Why the hell is it so hot in here?

“You’re sitting all rigid and nervous like a criminal on CSI in the middle of a polygraph.” She says. “And you won’t take your eyes off the page, like its a picture of Channing Tatum with his shirt off, not fucking Trig problems.”

“I’m just... Focused.” I say, quickly pulling my eyes from the book to make a point of looking at her. I try to relax my back, only now realizing how stiff I was. 

Clarke’s still staring at me, eyebrows furrowed. She seems unconvinced. “You’re acting weird.” She says again.

She’s right. She’s absolutely right. I AM acting weird. But since the universe exploded inside of me last night as I laid beside her beneath the starry sky, I have no idea how to act around Clarke. Maybe Master Anya is right. Maybe I should tell her how I feel. But my mouth is dry and my tongue is swollen and my mind is blank. And even if I was physically capable of it, just the thought of confessing to her makes my palms so sweaty I have to wipe them against my pants for fear of getting the pages of my book wet. I think if I were to even TRY telling her, I might throw up. Or break out in hives. Or pass out altogether.

“Acting weird?” I say, trying to sound casual, but even I know the squeaky voice that escapes me can only be described as ‘weird.’ “No I’m not.” I lie.

“Yes... You are.”

“No... I’m-”

A sudden knock on the door cuts me off and I breathe a sigh of relief as Clarke tosses her textbook aside and pushes herself up off of the floor. She gives me one last concerned look before disappearing around the corner. I hear the door creak open. 

“Finn!” Clarke’s voice drifts down the hall, and I feel my stomach, already tight with nerves, twist further at his name. “What are you doing here?” Clarke’s voice rings with surprise. I search her tone for notes of anger.

“These are for you, Babe. Can I come in?” Finn’s voice makes my skin crawl. I can tell, even at this distance, that his words are heavy in his mouth, his tongue weighed down by his hangover.

“I’m kind of busy right now, Finn.” Clarke answers, but I can already hear the thumping of Finn’s boots in the hallway. He’s already let himself in. I close my textbook and shove it into my backpack as he rounds the corner.

“I came to say sorry.” Finn says as Clarke enters the room behind him, a small bouquet of roses hanging limply at her side. “I was a jack-ass last night. I had one too many. I didn’t mean anything I said. Oh... Hey, Lexa.” He says, noticing me for the first time as I rise to my feet and sling my pack over my shoulders.

Finn flashes me his award-winning smile. I wonder if he knows I loathe him. I wonder if he knows I love Clarke more than he ever has... More than he ever will. “How are you?” He asks me innocently, as if we are old friends stumbling into each other in the bread aisle at Fred Meyer.

“I was just leaving.” I say, fighting back my anger; fighting back my disgust.

“No you’re not.” Clarke says, frowning at me and then Finn. “Finn... YOU’RE the one who should be leaving.”

“I’ve gotta talk to you, Babe.” Finn says, turning away from me, dismissing me. 

“We don’t have anything to talk about, Finn.” Clarke snaps at him. “Lexa... Stay.” She says softly as I push past Finn.

“You gotta hear me out.” Finn says.

“No, I don’t.” Clarke says. She grabs my wrist as I squeeze past her. “Lexa... Don’t go.” 

Her voice is soft. A plea. Her eyes are even softer. An ocean. I could stare into them. I could sink in them. I could drown in them. 

“Let her go, Clarke.” Finn says. “I’d rather talk to you alone. You can call her later.”

Clarke’s eyes are shimmering when I finally pull myself out of them; a veritable stormy sea of sadness and desperation. And it takes all of my strength to turn away from them, pull loose of her grip, (sometimes Master Anya’s self-defense techniques truly come in handy) and keep on walking. But I cannot be here any longer. I already know how everything will go down. Finn will make excuses, punctuating each perfectly crafted argument with a toothy smile and a flick of his hair and a ‘Princess’ or ‘Babe’ thrown in for good measure. He’ll make new promises to break. And Clarke will forgive him. She will believe him. She always does. 

And I cannot bear to be here to see it. I will want to punch him in the face. I will want to throw up all over his cheap bouquet of flowers. I will want to scream at Finn and shout at Clarke and cry at the very universe. I will want to do everything. And I will end up doing nothing. 

So I step into the rainy evening and pull my hood around my ears to drown out the soft noises of the world around me and the raging noise inside of me. And I try not to think of the anger threatening to wrack over me; to pull me back inside until I am eye to eye with Finn, ready to drive my knuckles into his sculpted nose or plump lips or dimpled chin. I try not to think of the longing threatening to consume me; to pull me back into the house until I am eye to eye with Clarke, ready to let the tears and the words and the desperation spill out of me like blood from a gaping wound. I try not to think of the pain threatening to pull me to my knees right here in the muddy front lawn; to paralyze me, to rip me apart until there is nothing left of me but a bloody, raw core on display for all the neighborhood to see.

I try not to think of anything. And I put on my ridiculous orange vest and tuck my helmet over the flaps of my ears. And I climb onto Safe Passage and press forward into the half-hearted wind and drizzling, gray rain. And I make my soul as numb as my fingertips gripping the cold handlebars, as numb as my ass against my rock-hard seat. And I don’t think about Finn or Clarke. I don’t think about Mr. Kane or Costia. I don’t think about my own dead father, or my mother who is so emotionally absent, she might as well be dead. I don’t think of anyone but a short, thrifty shopper on her tiptoes forever reaching, reaching, reaching for a damn bottle of mouthwash.


	27. Catapulting into Nothingness

Chapter 27  
Catapulting into Nothingness  
OR  
The Fucking Perfect Ninja Roll and the Nearly Broken Neck

 

LEXA

“Hey, Woods!” The voice startles me out of my trance-like numbness and I nearly topple from my bike as I turn my head in its direction at the exact moment my tire juts over a spindly fallen branch. I skid to a wobbly halt on the slick pavement, my brakes wailing like a rabbit in a snare. I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, feel the adrenaline seeping from my blood back into the ether from whence it came, and swivel my head again in the direction of the voice.

Clarke is staring at me, amusement and remorse battling for precedence on her face. She sits on the old, rusty swing set that my apartment complex attempts to pass off as a ‘playground,’ her legs dangling absently beneath her, the tips of her sneakers dragging random lines through the clumpy sand.

It takes me a second to wrap my head around what I am seeing. How the hell did she beat me here? The question is stupid, the answer obvious... I was on two wheels, she was on four. But still, how did I not notice her Ford Freestar cruising by? After all, it is a big-ass, blue van (Abby thought getting Clarke a minivan as her first car would not only teach her safe, responsible, driving, but also how to maneuver and park a big-ass vehicle. Clarke joked it was big enough to be Noah’s Ark, and the nickname stuck. But, embarrassed as she was of it at first, the Ark has come in handy more than once when Clarke was DD and had to get a van full of drunk teenagers safely home). Still, I can’t believe I didn’t notice the Ark passing me by. 

I lay Safe Passage on its side in the sodden grass and silently cross the barren oasis of mud and grass sitting in the center of my concrete apartment complex. Clarke doesn’t say anything as I approach and take a seat beside her on the cracked, wet, rubber swing-seat, grasping the rusted metal chains from which it dangles. The swing creaks, groaning in protest at my weight, and I am half surprised it doesn’t immediately collapse beneath me. 

“How did you get here so fast?” I ask, letting my weight sway side to side, the balls of my feet carving small spirals in the sand. 

“I left almost immediately after you did.” Clarke answers.

“What about Finn?” I ask.

“What about him?” Clarke says. “I told him to save his excuses... I had better places to be. I shoved his flowers back in his face and left him sitting in the living room completely confused. I told him, once he got his shit together, to go out the back and lock up behind him.” Clarke lets out a bitter laugh. “But anyways... I don’t want to talk about Finn. I don’t even want to THINK about him. Because as soon as you left, all I could think about was how we never figured out whether that stupid shopper would ever get her mouthwash or not.”

“Forget mouthwash.” I laugh, suddenly feeling a whole lot lighter, freer. I dig the heels of my sneakers into the sand and give a hard push backwards, wrenching my feet upwards and kicking out with a strong pump of my legs. It’s been years since the two of us have sat side-by-side on a swing set, laughing and daring each other to soar higher and higher into the sky. I’d forgotten the feeling of being suspended in the air, almost weightless. I’d forgotten the rush of the wind brushing my cheeks, pulling the moisture from my eyes like painless tears. I’d forgotten the joyful sensation of flying and the ease with which it allows me to leave my cares behind, growing smaller and smaller on the ground below.

“I’ve got a better problem for you.” I continue, slowly climbing higher into the sky with each pump of my legs. “If a girl leaps from the seat of a swing traveling at uhh... Like five miles an hour, at the apex of its arc, say at... Six feet off the ground, and she flies through the air at an angle of... I don’t know... Sixty-two degrees... How far will she fly before she crashes to the earth below? And more importantly... What is the probability that said girl might break one of her four limbs in the landing?”

Clarke rubs at her chin in mock pensiveness. “Hmmm... Let’s see... Cosine five miles an hour...” She mumbles to herself like a mad scientist. “Divided by tangent six feet... Square-rooted by sine sixty-two degrees... All multiplied by the inverse of four limbs...” She taps her fingertips like a five-year-old adding two plus four, then throws her hands into the air. “Fuck it... Without your nerdy calculator... I think there’s only one way to find out.” And she flashes me a wicked smile as she pushes off the sand, pumps her own legs out before her, and rapidly ascends to match my height. 

“Me first?” I ask, flashing her my own smile. The swings are singing a symphony of metallic screeches and wails and creaks, like a string orchestra tuning up before a show. I’ve pushed my tired swing to its limits, hitting that point where the chains go slack at the height of my arc, my butt actually leaving the seat for the shortest of moments before dropping back into it on the way down, my stomach leaping and plummeting with each free fall. My heart races with anticipation. I can feel the adrenaline in the tips of my fingers where they clutch the rusty chains. I keep my eyes fixed on the darkening gray sky above me, trying not to watch the ground rushing towards me with each descent. Its been years since I’ve done this. I know I’m not the bendy little one-hundred pound rag doll of a sixth grader that I used to be. There’s a good chance that I will hit the ground and find myself, instead of bending, quite literally breaking. But it is this very risk that only drives me higher and higher.

“You always did like to go first.” Clarke laughs, teasingly. 

“Are the judges ready?” I ask.

Clarke clears her throat dramatically and takes on a deep, serious tone. “Judges are ready. You are cleared for launch.”

I give the air one last powerful kick, fix my eyes on the sky above, and wait for that perfect moment when gravity releases her hold on me for just one instant. And before I can think better of it, I release the chains, thrust my legs forward, and catapult into nothingness.

Its amazing how many thoughts can race through a mind in the mere fraction of a second it takes for a body to spiral to the ground, trapped in the merciless clutches of gravity. ‘Yeehaw’ is my first thought, immediately followed in rapid succession by ‘Oh, crappers! What am I doing? Quit flailing... Clarke is watching. Hell, quit flailing... The ground is coming! Tuck and roll! Tuck and roll! Crap, Lexa... Tuck and roll!”

I don’t know how I do it... But I tuck. My feet hit the ground with the force of a hammer driving into a nail’s head. My bent knees absorb the first waves of the impact. I don’t know how I do it... But I roll. I pull my chin into the space between my collarbones just in time to feel the weight of the world slamming into my shoulders and cascading down my back. The world spins a full circle around me before driving into the heels of my sneakers, the points of my kneecaps, the palms of my hands. And then everything grows mercifully still. I stare in awe at the ground beneath me, the hands pressing against it almost seeming to belong to someone else. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, tingling like liquid lightning, its rush as powerfully addicting to me as a narcotic. 

“Of course... A fucking perfect ninja roll.” Clarke teases from above me, her voice growing louder and softer with each arc of her swing, like a wave rolling in and out against the shore. “What a show-off.” She laughs.

I pull my eyes from my hands and rub my sandy palms against my jeans. I push weakly against the ground and then find the energy to spring to my feet. I throw my hands above my head, arching my back like a gymnast, then drop into a bow, one arm folded across my rib cage, the other pressed against my lower back. 

“Judges’ score?” I call out.

“Hmmmm....” Clarke makes a show of scrunching her lips back and forth thoughtfully even as she still swings higher and higher. “I give it an eight-point-two.” She announces, sounding unimpressed. “A respectable score... But certainly not unbeatable.”

“An eight-point-two?” I complain, my hands perched on my hips. I cup them around my mouth and let out a series of low ‘boos.’ “It seems the crowd is displeased with the judges’ ruling.” I comment.

Clarke ignores my protests. “Is the second judges’ panel ready?” She asks.

“Confirmed!” I call out, now taking on the deep, formal voice myself. “You’re go flight! Godspeed, Griffin!” 

Clarke arcs her back and shoots her sneakers forward for one final pump, and I watch her rising, ascending through the air like the silver ball at the end of a pendulum. But before she hits the peak of her arc, Clarke, overly excited, releases her hold on the swing just a moment too soon. And instead of shooting skyward, arcing gracefully like a basketball thrown into the air by a little kid shooting granny-style, she rockets from the seat like a baseball from the fist of a pitcher. My jaw drops as I watch her soar through the air, arms and legs flailing frantically, searching the empty air for something to grasp, something to latch onto. 

Clarke shoots past the edge of the sand pit and my heart stops as her feet finally make contact with sodden, muddy grass. Her legs crumple beneath her and she lurches to the side, smacking into the ground and log-rolling over and over again through the grass, before finally slowing to a stop. 

“Clarke!” I shout out, my feet racing towards her as quickly as my heart races in my chest. I drop to my knees in the mud beside her. One arm is draped over her face, her torso twisted away from me, her legs sprawled limply at odd angles. “Clarke! Are you OK?” 

I reach for the arm obscuring her face, but before I can wrap my fingers around it, Clarke flops it down to her side and rolls onto her back with a groan. Her cheek is slick with mud and I see a bit of red shimmering in the brown. Her blue eyes flutter open and fix on my face hovering above her.

“Clarke! Are you OK?” I repeat, frantic.

And to my utter astonishment, she begins to laugh. “I think I overshot the landing a bit.” She says, pushing herself up into a sitting position and examining a spot on her elbow where her sweater has torn and crimson streaks run through the brown. “But you gotta admit... That deserves points for style. Judges’ score?”

It takes me a second to breathe again. I stare at Clarke in utter disbelief of the smile cutting through the muck on her face, cutting through the small space between us, cutting through my skin and ribs and lungs and heart, and into my very core. The relief washes over me and I cannot stop myself. I throw my arms around her and pull her, mud and rain and all, into the folds of me. She chuckles in surprise and I hold her against me until I feel her arms wrap around me in return.

“Is that a ten?” She laughs as I allow her to pull away. She is grinning now, her eyebrows raised cockily. And it is all I can do to stop myself from reaching out and running my palm over her cheek, wiping at the mud and blood that mars it. It is all I can do to stop myself from weaving my fingers into her wild, rain-soaked hair and pulling the blades of grass from its blond locks.

But I keep my itching fingertips safely by my side and force my own smirk across my face. “Taking into account the high difficulty level, great distance, incredible speed, and, yes... A certain unique flare of STYLE... But also considering the lack of height and... To put it kindly... The less than graceful landing... The judges give it a final score of eight-point...”

I pause to admire the flash of excitement glowing in her blazing blue eyes. “Three!” I declare. “A less than perfect score... But just enough to eek out her competition and sweep the gold-medal slot.”

Clarke gives me a playful shove and I plunk onto my ass in the squishy grass. “Eight-point-three?” She protests. I nearly broke my neck for an eight-point-three?”

“Hey.” I laugh. “If you have a problem with the scoring, you’ll have to take it up with the judging committee. But we both know both the judges are highly biased.”

“Fine.” Clarke grumbles through her smile. She pushes herself to her feet and meanders back to her swing, still swaying back and forth with the dying momentum of her jump. She plops into it and lets her feet dangle. “I guess I’ll just take my big W and not worry about the numbers.” 

I push myself onto my own feet, wipe uselessly at the mud on my ass, and step up behind her. “You’re such a gracious winner.” I laugh, giving her a gentle push in the small of her back, sending her swinging lazily forward. The streetlamps flicker on, dousing us in the soft yellow glow of man-made moonlight as she returns to me and I send her away again with another gentle push. Clarke doesn’t say anything, letting the motion rock her into a thoughtful silence. The only sound between us is the shrill squeak-squeak of the swing with each rotation of its chains. And a peace descends over me as soft as the misty rain drizzling down upon us, contentment enveloping me like the growing darkness surrounding us. 

I could tell her right now. I could tell her that I want to spend the rest of my days swinging through the highs and the lows of life with her by my side. I could tell her that the only thing that gives me enough courage, enough faith, to let go of the solid and leap into nothingness and uncertainty, is her presence beside me. I could tell her that I always want to be the one to hold her after she takes a spill; to be the one who wipes away the mud and the blood until all that is left is her smile again.

I could tell her that just sitting beside her makes my heart race like I am flying again; makes my stomach flip and twist, my mouth go dry, and my fingertips tingle. I could tell her that being close to her makes me feel like I am falling, falling, falling; tumbling through the air, flailing helplessly, waiting for the crash that will rip the air from my lungs and shake all sense from my brain. I could tell her that she is like adrenaline coursing through me and wind whipping through my ears; like earth spinning below me, like sky swimming above; like gravity clutching me and pulling me in; a force I cannot fight; a force I would never WANT to fight. 

I could tell her. I could tell her everything.

I open my mouth and shut it again. I swallow hard. I take a deep breath. I open my mouth again. But it is Clarke’s voice that fills the quiet between us.

“I don’t know what to do about Finn.” Clarke finally says with a weary sigh, and I let my jaw close again, my lips sealing. Of course she is thinking about Finn.

I could tell her. I could tell her to dump his ass. I could tell her she deserves so much better than cheap roses and rehearsed soundbytes of apologies. I could tell her. I could tell her everything.

But I just give her another soft push as my jaw clenches and my lips pull into a thin line. And I don’t know if I am more angry with Finn or with myself.

I can’t see her face. I can’t read her eyes. But I can tell from the tilt of her head, Clarke’s gaze is downcast. She grips the chains of the swing in the crooks of her elbows, opening her muddy hands in her lap before her. 

“God, I’m such a mess.” She says, and I don’t know if she is referring to the streaks of mud and sand and blood and grass on her clothes and on her skin, or if she means something much deeper than the skin. 

Clarke’s not really speaking to me. She’s speaking to herself; to the universe. I don’t think she is expecting an answer. But the words roll right off of my tongue anyway.

“Maybe...” I whisper as she swings away from me, the squeak of the bar above us drowning out my voice, so that I know she will never hear me. “But you’re a beautiful mess.”

 

Three more pushes and Clarke turns mid-swing to face me. The chains above her twist like a metal braid, then untwist, sending her spinning. The motion is slow, lazy, half-hearted, but it’s still enough to unsettle my tummy. The motion doesn’t seem to bother Clarke any.

“Think I could borrow some clothes?” She asks me.

“Clothes?” I repeat stupidly, my twisted stomach suddenly clenching.

“Yeah.” Clarke laughs. “Clothes, Lexa. You know... Like some sweatpants that aren’t covered in mud and that are... You know... Dry?”

“Oh... Yeah.” I stutter. “Dry clothes... Right... Sure.”

Clarke stares at me, blinking in confusion at my hesitancy. I can tell by the curve of her brows that she’s thinking that I’m acting weird again. She probably thinks I have some strange possessive hold on my clothes that won’t permit me to share them with anyone else. 

I don’t know what to say. Truth is I AM acting weird. But it’s not because I don’t want my clothes wrapped around Clarke’s skin. I’d give her the flannel off my back if she asked me for it. The issue is that all of my dry clothes are tucked away in our apartment, folded neatly into piles in my corner of the room since we don’t have a dresser and mom’s colorful array of glittering miniskirts and shimmering tube tops long ago claimed the entirety of our tiny closet through a series of mini conquests and well-staged invasions.

The issue is that Clarke has never been inside my pathetic facade of an apartment. Four years of excuses and distractions and alternative suggestions and I’d somehow managed to divert every slumber party, every study session, every movie night, and every lazy afternoon of killing time, away from my apartment and into someone else’s home. And now, the very situation I had so stealthily avoided is staring me down, face to face. And I don’t know what to do.

“Come on, Lexa.” Clarke says. “I can’t climb back into the Ark in this. You know how my mother feels about the goddamned upholstery. She’d faint if I covered the whole damn driver’s seat in mud. I promise I’ll wash your clothes and give them back to you.”

“I’m not worried about my clothes.” I say, almost tempted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “Like I own any clothes nice enough to worry about.” I mumble.

“Well, then? What’s the problem?” Clarke says, still confused. “If you don’t want me to stay...” She says, and my heart throbs painfully at the poorly concealed hurt in her eyes. “We can just run up real quick, I’ll change, and I’ll take off.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to stay.” I blurt out. “It’s just...”

“It’s just what?” Clarke asks, a mixture of confusion, hurt, and concern in her frown.

“It’s just my apartment...” I pause, searching for the right words. “It’s just... Well... It’s not like your house or Octavia’s or even Raven’s little condo. It’s...”

“Hey...” Clarke says, detangling herself from the twisted chains of her swing and moving to stand right in front of me. She grasps my wrist in one hand and her touch moves through me like an electric shock. “You don’t have to be embarrassed of your apartment, Lexa. Truth is... I feel kinda bad. I’ve known you for four years and I’ve never once stepped foot in your home. What kind of shitty friend has never seen her best friend’s room?”

“There’s not much to see.” I mumble. 

“I bet that isn’t true.” Clarke says with a small smile. “I bet you have your paintings hanging all over the walls, right? I bet you have your Tae Kwon Do medals dangling above your bed. I bet you’ve got a whole shelf full of books I’ve never been brave enough to attempt to read.”

My paintings are stacked in dusty piles beneath the bed my mom and I both share. The last time I ran across one of my Tae Kwon Do medals was when I reached into the kitchen junk drawer in search of the can-opener for my Chicken of the Sea tuna. The few books I own (Matilda and The BFG, both by Roald Dahl, Life of Pi, Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mockingbird, and a big, illustrated copy of Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends) are tattered from being reread over and over again, their spines peeling back like the skins of a banana.

“Come on, Lexa.” Clarke tugs on my wrist. “I wanna see where you live. Please?” And without waiting for my answer, she turns on the spot and pulls me across the sand. And before I can step from sand to muddy grass, she has somehow managed to weave her fingers into mine, nothing but the caked mud on her palms separating her skin from mine, and she has rendered me powerless. All I can do is stumble behind her as she leads me towards the door she’s watched me enter a thousand times without ever following me through.

In my mind I can already picture the mess my mother has probably left in her hurry to get to work on time: the overflowing ashtray reeking of tobacco and a slow, agonizing death; the tumbler glass with its pungent brown liquid leaving rings on the coffee table; the empty bottles in the sink and greasy Taco Bell wrappers on the counter. At least I know the electricity and the water will be running, having paid those bills myself just last week with the money Anya pays me for helping teach classes.

I should be teaching for free, already owing Anya thousands of dollars worth of unpaid tuition and tournament fees. But Anya insists on paying me a solid twelve dollars an hour (three dollars over minimum wage and more than any sixteen-year-old who is used to mowing lawns and babysitting could ever hope for). And she pays me under the table, insisting that no one under eighteen should have to pay taxes and claiming that she’d rather not fill out the paperwork anyways (Master Anya detests paperwork of any sort). 

We’re halfway up the stairs, my cheeks growing warmer with every step, already blushing in anticipation of the embarrassment, when I hear the muffled sounds of a T.V. drifting down from my apartment.

“That’s weird.” I say. “My mom’s supposed to be at work tonight.”

“Maybe she just forgot to turn the TV off?” Clarke suggests. 

“How does someone forget to turn off the TV?” I mumble, shaking my head. Was she running that late? “It’s blaring.”

We reach the landing and I fumble for my keys, only to find the door isn’t locked. I push it open and am assaulted by the stale stenches of whiskey and cigarette butts and... My stomach flips in disgust even as my face fully flushes with embarrassment... The acidic reek of vomit. Did she really leave a puddle of puke for me to clean up? 

I want to pull the door shut again. Every piece of me is shouting for me to turn Clarke around and lead her away before she can see this part of my life... This part of me. But it’s too late. Clarke is already following me inside. 

I was expecting a mess.

I was not expecting to become the mess. 

But nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing.


	28. Crashing Back Down to Earth

Chapter 28  
Crashing Back Down to Earth  
OR  
Awash in the Blinding White Light of Hell

I walk into the living room and before I can even pull my backpack from my shoulder or shove my keys into the pocket of my jeans, my world is flipped. It flips upside down. It picks me up and tosses me and slams me into it. It pulls the oxygen from my lungs and makes the room spin. And my feet are planted on the ground, frozen in place, but I feel like I am crumbling, crashing to the earth, melding into the ground. 

“Mom?” I utter. My voice is the frightened squeak of a child lost and alone and afraid. 

My mother is laying on the floor beside the sofa, one ankle still hooked into the crevice of the pillows, convulsing. Vomit spills from her like lava erupting, spurting into the air as she chokes and sputters. And I am still paralyzed, frozen in place, watching the color leak from my mother’s cheeks like watercolors washing from a paintbrush and swirling down the drain.

“Lexa, call 9-1-1!” Clarke shrieks. Her words seem to drift towards me from somewhere far away. She pushes past me, drops to her knees beside my convulsing mother, and rolls her onto her side. Clarke shoves her fingers into my mother’s mouth, pulling chunks of vomit from her like a dish-washer clearing potato skins from a clogged sink. 

My mother’s convulsions cease and her body falls limp, her eyes lulling back into her head. Clarke places two fingers in the crease of my mother’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

“Lexa!” She shouts again, turning her blazing blue eyes to me. They are wide with panic. They are sharp and clear and focused. “9-1-1, NOW!”

I hear the words. I try to reach for my phone, but I cannot make myself move. I can’t lift an arm any more than I can pull my eyes from the scene unraveling before me. It all feels unreal, like the opening minutes of a particularly grisly Grey’s Anatomy episode. I keep waiting for the credits to roll; for the scene to fade to black. But the commercial break never comes.

Clarke fumbles for her own phone, slipping it from the back pocket of her jeans while simultaneously rolling my mother back onto her back. 

“Yes... We need an ambulance!” Clarke shouts into her phone. “Yes, Greenwood Apartments. Drug overdose.” Clarke says, snatching an overturned bottle of pills from the floor beside her. “White tablets. They aren’t labeled. Possible alcohol poisoning too. She was convulsing, but she’s stopped. She has decreased heart rate, weak pulse; breathing slow, irregular, and shallow.” Clarke pauses to listen to whoever is on the other side of the line. 

“Lexa, what’s your apartment number? Lexa!” Clarke snaps my name again. Frustration and panic ring in the space between us. I try to answer. But I cannot make my tongue move. I cannot form the words.

“I think my friend’s in shock.” Clarke breathes into the phone. “We’re in the back of the complex. Left of the playground. Third floor... Shit!” Clarke pauses, holding a palm hovering over my mother’s nose and mouth. “I think she’s stopped breathing!” She cries into the phone. “I’m commencing CPR.”

Clarke pulls the phone from her ear and hurriedly extends it towards me. “Lexa, take the phone.” She commands. “Goddammit, Lexa! Take the phone!”

Clarke’s shout finally shakes something awake inside of me and it is like she has flicked a switch in me so that I can move again. I take the phone in my trembling hand and lift it to my ear.

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?” A woman’s voice seeps into me. 

“Yes.” I manage to speak as I watch Clarke tilt my mother’s chin back and press her lips against my mother’s vomit-coated ones. My mother’s cheeks puff. The rest of her is still. Clarke puffs once more than leans back onto her knees and starts pressing her palms against my mother’s breastbone, counting out the beats like a child playing hide-and-seek. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three...” I watch my mother’s chest rise and fall in time with Clarke’s rhythm, her skin glistening with sweat and a slick of vomit where it peeks out from her low-cut, sequined top. 

“OK, honey.” The voice in my ear speaks. The woman sounds calm. Too damn calm. Doesn’t this woman know the world is falling apart? Tearing at the seams? Collapsing in upon itself? “The ambulance is on the way. But I need you to tell me your apartment number. Can you do that for me?”

“Three-thirteen.” I stammer. “Building D.”

“Good, honey. You’re doing great.” The voice coos. I can just make out the soft clicking of computer keys in the background. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Lexa.” I answer in a voice that sounds nothing like my own. 

“Lexa... That’s a pretty name. I’m Claire.” The voice says as if the woman is talking with a preschooler in a passing stroller at the park. I don’t know what to say. This whole situation is absurd. Am I supposed to thank her? Am I supposed to say ‘nice to meet you?’ 

“OK, Lexa... The ambulance is on the way.” She tells me again. “Now I need you to tell me what’s happening. Can you do that for me? Is your friend still administering CPR? Is the woman breathing?”

“My mother.” I croak. 

“Right... Is your mother breathing, Lexa?” The woman asks. I’ve already forgotten her name.

“She can’t die.” I say.

“We’re going to do everything we can to keep that from happening, Lexa.” The woman promises. “The ambulance is on the way.” She says yet again. “Now, Lexa... I need you to tell me... Is your mother breathing?”

“She can’t die.” I say again.

The operator’s voice leaks into my ear like the gentle tumbling of water from a fountain. But I’m not listening to a single word. I watch my mother’s cheeks deflate as Clarke pulls away from her pale blue lips and moves to start another round of compressions. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three...”

“She can’t die.” The words roll off of my tongue like a whispered prayer and dissolve into the ether. And as the distant wailing of sirens fills the stale air surrounding me, the sound of my words fades into nothing so quickly it is like it never existed at all.

 

***...***

Harsh white light, cold and blinding, assaults me from every side. It descends from the ceiling; ricochets off the walls; bounces off the linoleum; reflects ten-fold off the silver stripes running down the ugly orange vest still wrapped around me. Why are hospitals always so damn white? I wonder. Is the light supposed to be comforting? 

I feel like I am trapped in a hell masquerading as heaven.

I stare down at the sneakers beneath me, their tips caked in mud and sand. I look over the legs below me, the worn jeans covering them wet and muddy at the knees. I stare at the hand at the end of my arm, its fingers weaved tightly into Clarke’s. I know I am here, planted in a plastic chair, sitting beside Clarke in this hallway of whiteness. And yet, part of me is somewhere else entirely. Part of me is someTIME else entirely.

Six years ago I sat in a chair just like this in a hallway just like this in a hospital wing just like this. Only then the sneakers below me dangled an inch off of the floor. And the words floating through my brain like ghosts (things I knew I should fear though I could make no sense of them) at that time were ‘aneurysm’ and ‘cerebral damage’ and ‘life support’ and ‘comatose,’ not ‘opioid overdose triade’ or ‘death in transport’ or ‘probable suicide.’ And the fingers entwined with mine then were not Clarke’s. They were my mother’s. 

Six years ago I sat with my eyes on the floor, two words echoing and echoing and echoing in the space between my ears. “No worries.” Those were the last words I ever spoke to my father. 

“Don’t be late for dinner, Lex.” He had warned me as I pried my frilly pink bicycle from it’s corner of the garage, working my fingers through the tangles in the shiny silver tassels dangling from the handlebars. “I’m making French Toast with strawberries. And I got caramel just for you.”

Dad was a purist who only ever liked maple syrup on his breakfast, whether it was pancakes or waffles or French Toast. But Mom liked strawberries. And I liked caramel. And Dad, always the chef in the house, never refused to accommodate ‘his girls.’ I could have asked for pickled asparagus spears with my French Toast and he would have obliged with nothing more than a shake of his head to say ‘you’re crazy, but I still love you.’

“I’m just gonna ride for a little while, Dad. I’ll be back in time.” I had promised. “Don’t worry. I’m not missing caramel.”

“OK...” He had said, clearly skeptical. (I sometimes... OK... I OFTEN... lost track of time when out cruising the neighborhood on my bike). “But if you’re late it’ll get cold real fast. And then it will be all soggy and gummy and gross. And I’m NOT making you another batch.” He had lied. Of course he would make me a fresh batch if I so much as pouted at my soggy plate. 

I should have set my bike aside and turned to hug him. I should have told him I loved him more than anything else in the whole wide world. I should have thanked him for every jar of caramel and every tickle fight and every bad joke and every night lying beneath the stars. But I hadn’t even glanced his way. 

“No worries.” Is all I had said, wheeling my bike under the garage door and saying goodbye to him for the very last time with nothing but a lazy backwards wave of my hand.

No worries. No worries. No worries. How wrong I had been.

Now, six years later, I sit here again with my eyes on the floor. And again I am thinking of a last goodbye. I hadn’t told my mother, ‘No worries.’ My father is the last person I’ve ever spoken those words to, the last person I ever will. But my last encounter with my mother was no less unremarkable, no less ordinary... Another seemingly insignificant moment that will forever be etched into my mind like a tattoo someone wakes up to find on their skin after a night of drinking... An eternal reminder of a moment of thoughtlessness.

“Don’t be late for work, again.” I had scolded her this afternoon as I shoved my Trig textbook into my bag and pulled my helmet over my ears. With a weary sigh I had taken her overflowing ashtray into the kitchen and dumped the stinking mess into the garbage. “You should eat something before you go.” I had said, rinsing the ashtray and wiping it with a paper towel. “There’s a burrito from Taco Bell in the fridge.”

I hadn’t been expecting a response. But for once, my mother had pulled her faintly bloodshot eyes from the TV to look at me as I set the empty ashtray down beside her. 

“You’re always taking care of me... Aren’t you, Lexa?” She had said. 

Her voice wasn’t angry or bitter. But it wasn’t exactly a ‘thank you’ either. She had spoken the words in a merely observational tone, as flatly as one might say, ‘Taco Bell’s burritos are a good deal, aren’t they?’ or ‘They’re are a lot more commercials these days, aren’t there?’ or ‘Your bright orange vest sure is ugly, isn’t it?’

I had stared at her, sitting on the sofa in her stained flannel pajamas, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. It was afternoon and she wasn’t dressed yet. It was afternoon and she was already drinking. Because today, like everyday since my dad had died, was just another one of her bad days. 

Perhaps I should have given her a hug. Perhaps I should have told her I loved her. Perhaps I should have tried to make her smile, make her laugh.

“Well, someone has to.” Is all I had said, the tiniest of mumbles. And I had just turned away and slung my bag over my shoulder and pulled the door open with nothing but another lazy backwards wave of my hand to say goodbye before I closed it shut behind me. 

And whether or not she had heard my final words to her, now I’ll never know. 

 

Two separate moments in time, divided by a river six years wide. And yet, here I am all over again, sitting still in a hallway while the world spins around me; battling the demons in my head while surrounded by light more white than heaven’s. And I still feel exactly the same now as I did then, sitting, sitting, sitting as nurses and doctors stroll by in squeaking, nonslip, orthopedic shoes, yawning into cups of coffee and flipping absently through charts and clipboards and chatting with one another about their kids’ report cards or their latest golf score all without ever throwing one glance my way. I feel small, helpless, and afraid; alone, overlooked, and forgotten.

Clarke’s hand gives mine a little squeeze as if she can read my thoughts; as if to say I’m not alone. I’m not forgotten. She is here with me. But the loneliness remains all the same.

“Mom!” Clarke suddenly calls out, releasing her grip on my hand for the first time since she took the seat beside me, minutes or hours or days ago. Abby strides towards us, still dressed in her stunning red dress, her high-heels clicking on the linoleum like fingers striking the keys of a typewriter. She doesn’t hesitate even a moment to wrap her arms around her daughter, pressing into the layers of sand and rain and mud and blood and vomit that coat Clarke’s ruined clothes. 

Mr. Kane takes a seat beside me as Clarke exchanges whispers with her mother. I stare down at my sneakers, resuming the position I’ve held since the nurse with Eeyore on the breast pocket of her scrubs and streaks of white in her curls plunked me down into this godforsaken chair. He wraps one arm around my shoulders and uses the other to fiddle with his blood-red tie. 

A moment of silence. Then, “I’m sorry, Lexa.” 

Mr. Kane says nothing more. He doesn’t tell me not to worry. He doesn’t tell me it’s all going to be OK. He knows those words are hollow. Kane is no stranger to hospitals, to cold plastic seats, and cold white light. He is no stranger to loss. He is no stranger to loneliness. He sits beside me, but I know he is somewhere else entirely too. He is someTIME else entirely too. 

Minutes pass. Clarke takes her seat beside me again, rewrapping my fingers in hers. Abby disappears and then reappears with a tray of coffees. I set mine on the floor beside me as Abby takes a seat beside Mr. Kane and holds his hand as tightly as Clarke holds mine. And I watch the steam from my coffee rise and swirl and dissipate as more minutes pass.

The others sip from their coffees. Occasionally they share a soft word or two, but the consonants and vowels and pauses have no meaning in my ears. And when my untouched coffee grows cold, Mr. Kane and Abby rise from their seats and they say something to Clarke and they say something to me. And I feel fingers grip my shoulder, a palm against my back. And then they are walking away down the blinding white hallway. And I don’t apologize for ruining their date. And I don’t say goodbye. 

And I don’t look up from my sneakers again until Clarke leaps from her seat beside me a second time, letting my fingers fall into the empty space beside me.

“Master Anya!” Clarke cries as Anya wraps her arms around her. “You’re here.” 

“Clarke...” Master Anya answers, eyeing her up and down, her eyes quickly taking in the mess of Clarke. “You should go home and get some rest.”

Clarke doesn’t reply right away, and though my eyes are back on my sneakers, I know her eyes are on me. I don’t have to see her to know that her brows are furrowed, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip.

“I think I should stay.” She says.

“It’s OK, Clarke.” Master Anya replies. “Get some rest. I’ve got this, now.”

Clarke kneels in front of me and lifts my chin with one hand, forcing me to look at her. “I’ll call you soon, OK, Lexa?” She says. Then she lurches forward and wraps her arms around me, pulling me into her until I cannot help but lift my heavy arms and wrap them around her in return. And she holds me for minutes or hours or days. Then she pulls away and stands and leans over me. And she does something she’s never done before. She plants a kiss on my forehead. And she spins on her heels and walks away before I can even muster the strength to say goodbye.

Master Anya plunks into the seat beside me. She doesn’t take my hand. She doesn’t wrap an arm around me. And yet, for the first time in minutes or hours or days, I feel like I am not alone. 

“How are you doing, kiddo?” She asks.

And for the first time in minutes or hours or days, I suddenly find my voice.

“Why’d she do it, Master Anya?” I ask, the words spilling out of me like water breaking loose from a dam; as if I’ve been holding them inside for years. I don’t know if my mother’s overdose was accidental or intentional. It doesn’t matter. She’d been slowly killing herself every day since the day my father stopped breathing. 

“Why’d she drink and smoke and take pills? I tried to cheer her up. I tried to take care of her. Dad died. But I was still there. I was still there. Why wasn’t that enough for her?”

Anya sighs long and slow, taking a moment to consider her answer. “Sometimes people just aren’t strong enough to handle the things life throws their way, Lexa.” She says. “Sometimes the pains of life can break people apart so deeply that they can’t ever figure out how to put themselves back together again.”

I think about what Master Anya says, but it sounds like a lame excuse to me. I know my father’s death broke my mother apart. But it broke me apart too. It shattered me. It crushed me. It ripped me into a million jagged pieces. The day they buried my father I stood in the graveyard long after everyone else had left; long after their muttered condolences had drifted away like dandelions on the wind. My mother couldn’t drag me away and when she finally gave up trying, she drove to a liquor store, went home, sat down on the sofa, turned the TV on, and poured herself her first glass of whiskey. 

All the while, I sat in the muddy dirt, leaning against my father’s freshly carved tombstone until the gray sky faded into twilight and twilight gave way to night. I laid on the dirt beneath which he laid and stared up at the black sky searching for the stars. But the clouds were so heavy I couldn’t even find the moon. The sky was blacker than the stupid, lacy dress wrapped around me, squeezing my lungs and scratching at my skin. And the blackness was so heavy I felt like it was enveloping me, seeping into me. And in that moment the darkness was so complete I was sure it was all I would ever have. A light had left the world, and the very world would be forever cloaked in mourning.

But the hours had passed, and with it, the night. And the sun rose the next day, burning my tired pupils with its obscenely cheerful light. And, just like that, the world had moved on as if nothing had ever happened. Because that is what life does... It goes on. And it doesn’t matter if you’re broken or shattered or crushed or torn. Life doesn’t stop for you. It goes on. And so do you.

As if Master Anya can read my thoughts, she continues. “You have a rare strength inside of you, Lexa... A resilience... A determination. I saw it in you the moment you wandered through the doors of my gym and stepped onto my mats and pushed yourself until you were red in the face and your legs wobbled beneath you. You were determined to keep up with the green-belts and the blue-belts and the red-belts, even if you were the clumsiest white-belt in the room. You have a strength deep inside that most people never discover within themselves... The same strength that gets you to the top of Nutcracker Hill... The same strength that got you through the death of your best friend... The same strength that got you through the death of your father... The same strength that will get you through this.” Anya sighs. 

“You feel the pain just like everyone else.” She continues. “But you never let it stop you or cripple you or paralyze you. You push through it. No matter how much it hurts, you always push through it.” Master Anya finishes, leaning forward in her chair, propping her elbows on her knees.

“I don’t push through pain because I’m strong.” I say in a small voice. “I push through because I have to. I’ve always HAD to.”

“There’s no difference, Lexa.” Anya says. “Sometimes it takes a great deal of strength to get up everyday and do what we have to do. Your mother didn’t have your strength.”

A moment of quiet falls between us. I consider Master Anya’s words. But I don’t feel strong right now. I don’t feel strong at all.

Because the truth is I am scared. Scared. Scared. Scared.

“What’s going to happen to me, Master Anya?” I finally ask, the words catching in my throat, threatening to choke me. “My dad’s gone. And now my mom’s...” I pause. I can’t bring myself to say the word yet. It’s irrational, silly... But I feel like if I speak the word out loud, I will make it true; make it final; make it absolutely irreversible. 

“I have no one else.” I stammer.

“That’s not true, Lexa.” Master Anya replies. But I know it is a lie. 

“I have no other family.” I say. “And I won’t be eighteen for another year and a half. They’re going to throw me into the system, aren’t they?” I don’t know much about orphanages or foster care, but I know enough to be terrified of ‘the system.’ I could be tossed from family to family, exchanged from legal guardian to legal guardian with nothing but a signature and a check from the state, like a cheap used car passing from one owner to the next. I could end up anywhere.

“I won’t let that happen.” Anya says. She slinks from her seat beside me and kneels in front of my chair just as Clarke had done only moments ago. “I don’t care how much paperwork it takes...” She swears. “You’re coming home with me, Lexa.”

I pull my eyes from my feet and lift them to meet Anya’s, struggling to make sense of the words she just spoke. Is she serious? I search her dark brown eyes for the hint of uncertainty, the glint of hesitation. But her jaw is fixed and her eyes are as sharp as I’ve ever seen them.

“You hate paperwork.” Is all I can say.

Master Anya lets out the smallest of chuckles. “That’s true, kiddo.” She says. “I do hate paperwork. I absolutely, completely detest paperwork. But not as much as I absolutely, completely love you, Lexa. Not half as much as I love you.”

And she wraps herself around me just as Clarke had and pulls me into her with a force I could never resist. And I let myself collapse against her, falling into her embrace like a tired old woman sinking into the worn cushions of her favorite rocking chair. Master Anya’s arms are strong and solid and altogether soft and they remind me of my father’s. Her hug is tight and firm and altogether gentle and it reminds me of the way my mother used to hug me before they laid my father in the ground and my mother shriveled up right along with him.

And I let her hold me for minutes and days and hours and lifetimes.

“I love you, kid. I love you.” Master Anya says again and again, until the words seep into me and the fear drains from me like tears. 

 

***...***

“Sorry about the mess.” Anya apologizes. She flicks a switch and douses the little room in light and I have to blink against the onslaught of yellow. Yellow walls. Yellow curtains. Yellow sheets and yellow pillows. Yellow rugs. The only other color is white shining in mercifully plain patches here or there. It looks like someone (who is clearly either colorblind or sadistic) hosed down the entire room in melted butter but missed a few spots. 

“I’ve been meaning to clean this room out for... Well... Its been a few years now.” Anya confesses with a small half-smile. “Always one of those things I’ll do NEXT weekend, you know? Like taking down the Christmas lights or fixing the garage door. Which... By the way... You need to remind me to show you how to prop open so that it doesn’t try to decapitate you every time you get your bike out.”

I follow Anya into the little room, feeling about ten years too old to belong here. I see now that the white splotches splattering the room are daisies. Clusters of daisies on the bed sheets. Chains of daisies dangling in the curtains. Patches of daisies bursting from the wallpaper encircling us. There are daisies everywhere. Normally I might find them cheerful. But tonight I can barely bring myself to look at them. 

The disgust must be written all over my face.

“I know... It’s a bit much.” Anya says, watching me scan the room. I’m not sure if she is referring to the putrid yellow hue that seems to penetrate right through my pupils to press painfully against my brain, or the obnoxiously peppy flowers scattered throughout. “This is what happens when you let a six-year-old choose the decor.”

“My niece, Tris, used to spend the night here occasionally.” Anya explains. “Till my brother’s work relocated him to the opposite side of the country. Over the years, it’s kind of become a storage room now. But don’t worry... I’ll get all of this old junk out of here, and then we can repaint if you want.”

She gestures towards the corner where random crap is jumbled like the sad, discarded remnants of an unsuccessful garage sale. There’s a snare drum with stacks of old CDs piled on top of it. Propped against it is a beat-up acoustic guitar sitting beside a mound of floppy paperbacks and worn Time Magazines and a giant box of old Tae Kwon Do medals, most of which still glint golden beneath the layers of dust and tarnish. There’s an entire set of differently sized kettle-bells and a strange curved padded plastic contraption that says Ab Roller across the top of it. There’s also a silver dagger in a leather sheath, a glistening katana, and, behind everything else, propped against the corner, what appears to be a genuine longbow. I run my fingers over a dusty edge of the snare drum and give it a few raps with my fingernails.

“Yep... You caught me.” Anya says with a small chuckle. “I was in marching band in high school. Believe it or not, I wasn’t always this cool. Anyhow... The bathroom’s right down the hall. There’s towels in the hall closet. Make yourself at home. I mean... This IS your home now, so...” She pauses awkwardly. “Well... I know it doesn’t really feel like home yet... But it will.” She promises with another small smile. “I’m going to go get you some PJs you can borrow for now, until you... You know... Have the...” She pauses again, searching for her words. “Until we go back for your things.”

I try not to think about her words. I know I will have to go back to the apartment, of course. My clothes and paintings and books and all the little bits of me are still folded nicely in the corner or shoved beneath the bed or stuffed into the closet, waiting for me like prisoners of war awaiting rescue. But the idea of opening the front door and stepping into silence and the stale rank of cigarettes and vomit... The idea of emptying the kitchen cupboards and rummaging through the medicine cabinet... The idea of sorting through my mother’s clothes and make-up and shoes and purses and trashy romance novels... Deciding what to do with all the pieces of my mother... It makes me nauseated just to think about. And I don’t know how I would get through any of it without the promise of Anya by my side.

As if she can read my thoughts, Anya plunks her hand onto my shoulder again, the pressure of her palm a physical reminder that she is right beside me; the grip of her fingers a promise that she is not going anywhere. I want to thank her. I want to tell her that the weight of her hand on my shoulder feels like the only thing that is real right now, the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping me on my feet. But I cannot make my mouth form the words. 

“Right...” She says after a moment. “Pajamas... Do you want fuzzy or flannel?”

“You know what?” She says when all I do is stare. “I’ll just bring a selection and you can choose. How’s that?”

Perhaps realizing I haven’t spoken a word since we left the hospital, stepping from the surreal brightness of the white halls into the muddy darkness of a rainy night, Anya doesn’t wait for a reply before giving my shoulder one last little squeeze and heading for the door. I toss my backpack onto the bed, smothering a patch of cheerful daisies, and jump when a fuzzy white pillow unwinds, arches a back, and hisses at me before leaping from the sheets and weaving between Anya’s ankles with an agility far too graceful for its mass.

“Oh... I forgot...” Anya says with the smallest of stumbles. “I should’ve warned you... Warrior thinks this is HIS room.” 

Warrior, as Anya called him, is the fattest, fuzziest cat I’ve ever seen, and any other day I would laugh at the ridiculousness of his title. But right now I can barely find the humor in it, let alone find the strength to acknowledge it with a laugh.

“He’s a few pounds heavier now than when I named him.” Master Anya says with a small chuckle. “He used to be quite svelte. I guess it happens to the best of us.” Anya says, a woman with the sleek, slender, muscular build of an athlete. I can’t imagine Anya being anything but svelte.

“Watch your ankles.” Anya warns. “With strangers, he likes to hide around corners and swipe at you as you cross his path. But don’t worry, once he gets to know you he will stop trying to slit your Achilles and will upgrade his attacks to attempted asphyxiation by insisting on sleeping directly on top of your face. Anyhow... pajamas...”

Anya makes her way through the door, and with nothing else to do, I wander down the hall to the bathroom. The bathroom is the complete inverse of the bedroom: white walls dappled with yellow sunflowers. Sunflowers dancing on the shower curtain. Sunflowers springing from the wallpaper. Sunflowers on the bathmat and the toothbrush holder and the soap dispenser. Plastic sunflowers sitting jubilantly in a little vase on the counter. They are no less cheerful or bright than the daisies. They are no less putrid.

I yank off my ugly orange vest and my mud-caked clothes and, avoiding the eyes of the broken girl in the mirror, step into the shower. And I turn the knob as far to the left as it will allow, until the plumes of steam gather and swirl and rise around me; until my skin turns bright pink in protest. But I still feel cold. And I just stand there with my head bowed. And I let the scalding water trickle down my cheeks, searing my skin like tears.

Minutes or hours or days later, I pull the fuzzy pajamas Anya laid out for me over me like a blanket. But I am still cold. So I pull the checkered purple pajamas on too and I climb into the little bed and pull the comforter around me in search of the solace it can never offer me despite its name. The comforter is so much more substantial than the sheets my mother and I have used for years. I know it is heavy and warm around me. But still, I am cold. And I wrap the comforter tighter around me still, tucking its edges in like the flaps of a stuffed tortilla. But I know I cannot shake the cold. Because the cold is inside of me. 

And I roll onto my back and stare at the darkness of the ceiling and the walls around me, their yellow drowned in the black of night. The darkness is impenetrable, deep and complete, as thick as a living thing. It is as pure as the darkness that surrounded me the night I laid by my father’s grave. And again I let it enter me. And again I cannot help but feel like the darkness is all I will ever have.

And I am still staring at the ceiling when a lazy gray light finds its way through the slits in the window’s blinds, dripping color onto the walls like runny egg yolks. The sun is rising yet again. And I can hear the birds singing in the tree outside my window when I finally close my weary eyes. The world is moving on. But this time, it can move on without me.


	29. Alone

Chapter 29  
Alone  
OR  
Not Alone

CLARKE

 

“Do you WANT him to knock you out, or what, Clarke?” Octavia asked, half laughing, half scolding Clarke. She sat on the edge of the mats, enjoying her rest from the sparring rotation, shaking her head at Clarke while judging from afar. “If so... I think you can just ask and he will be happy to oblige. If not... Maybe try keeping your hands up for once.”

Clarke shook her own head in an attempt to clear the fog between her ears. She was on her hands and knees on the mats again, and again she had no clue how she had ended up there. She hadn’t even noticed Aden’s foot until the thump against the side of her head, the sound both amplified and strangely dulled by the foam of her helmet, sent her crashing to the ground again in confused surprise.

She tasted the sharp metallic bite of blood on the tip of her tongue from the slit where her chapped lips had torn under the sharp edges of her teeth. She hardly ever bothered to wear her mouthpiece during practice, but it seemed forgoing the extra protection tonight had been a mistake. Clarke wiped at the cut with her sweaty sleeve, pushed herself onto her feet again, straightened her helmet, and turned to face Aden again, splitting her stance, raising her fists, and trying to force her wandering mind to focus. 

“You’re bleeding.” Aden said, the look on his face apologetic save for the small shine of pride in his blue-gray eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Honestly... I thought you would block it.”

“It’s fine.” Clarke answered. “It was a fair shot. I just wasn’t paying attention. Plus... I barely felt it.” Clarke lied, hiding behind a teasing smile. “You didn’t knock me down. I slipped. My feet are sweaty.” Clarke made a small show of dragging the soles of her feet across the mat to dry them while Aden laughed, clearly unconvinced.

“Are you saying I should hit you harder?” He smirked. “Or are you saying you need a time out to dry your nasty feet? Maybe we should get you some little booties with grippers on the bottom...”

“Naw... That’s not necessary. How about I just dry my nasty feet on your hogu?” Clarke answered, charging forward with a fast-kick that was not nearly fast enough. Aden dodged the attack almost lazily, countering it with a well-placed back-kick that sent her stumbling backwards onto her ass again. But Clarke barely registered the slam of her tailbone against the mats. She barely registered the rushing of the air fleeing her lungs. Because this wasn’t the first time she had been knocked on her ass by that exact back-kick. She had been nailed by that counter a hundred times over the years. And she knew exactly from whom Aden had learned it. And for the millionth time tonight, she was thinking about Lexa.

“Time!” Master Anya’s shout rang out across the mats. “Rotate! Octavia... Step in with Aden. Clarke... You’re with me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clarke answered, though what she really wanted to say was ‘uh-oh.’ Clarke wasn’t sure if it was anger or disappointment or sadness reflecting from Anya’s dark eyes, but whatever the case, Anya didn’t look pleased. Over the years Clarke had watched Master Anya dole out life lesson after life lesson to her students in the ring, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was about to be the recipient of a spinning-hook-kick to the face and (a source of much longer-lasting impact) a word to the heart. But Master Anya didn’t raise her fists. Instead, she sank to the ground as Clarke approached and patted the mats beside her. It seemed she was skipping the theatrics of the fight and going straight for the realer, deeper battle.

“What are you doing here, Clarke?” Master Anya asked with a concerned frown.

“You mean besides getting my ass handed to me by a ten-year-old?” Clarke replied with a chuckle and a smile she knew Master Anya could see right through.

“Your head is not here...”

“Sure it is.” Clarke interrupted. “Aden just nailed it three times.”

“Your head is not here.” Master Anya repeated, completely ignoring Clarke’s pathetic attempts at levity. “And neither should you be. Why don’t you go see her?”

Clarke didn’t have to ask who Anya was referring to, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. “She doesn’t want to see me.” Clarke answered, swallowing hard at the sudden tightness in her throat. She ran her tongue over her lips, letting the tip linger on the salty, frayed edges of the fresh cut Aden had blessed her with. “She asked us to leave her alone.”

After two days of unanswered phone calls, Clarke had rallied the troops earlier this afternoon, and she, along with Raven, Octavia, and Luna, had shoved her way into the hideously bright little bedroom where Lexa was now holed up.

“If you think rejecting our phone calls and ignoring our texts is going to keep any of us at bay, Lexa, you’re sorely mistaken.” Raven had said by way of greeting.

Lexa had been sitting in the center of her twin-sized bed, a splotch of checkered purple in a sea of sunshine yellow so bright it could bring tears to your eyes. She had looked up in surprise at their storming entrance and quickly shoved a large book under the daisy-covered comforter draped around her knees. 

“What are you guys doing here?” She had asked, her voice a slew of mixed surprise and anger and indifference.

“Are you serious, or what?” Octavia had answered. “We came to check on you, of course.”

“I’m fine.” Lexa had answered, dropping her gaze. “You guys should go.”

“We missed you in school today again.” Clarke had said, ignoring her words. She stepped forward and pulled a notebook from her backpack. “I brought notes from Trig for you. Copied them straight off the board. But I don’t have any idea what Mr. Sinclair was talking about the whole time...” (A very true statement since Clarke hadn’t been able to focus on a single thing since the moment she had left Lexa crumpled in that plastic chair in the cold white hallways of the hospital). “So if you can’t make sense of them, you’ll have to ask Raven to decipher them for you.”

“It’s simple, really...” Raven had spoken as Lexa had hesitated before finally taking the notebook and tossing it onto the mattress beside her without uttering a single word in reply. “Basically we just practiced expressing the sum and difference formulae for sine and cosine in matrix form...”

“Raven, will you please stop?” Luna had cut her off with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t think Lexa gives a shit about the Matrix formulas right now.”

“Formulae in matrix form.” Raven had corrected her.

“Whatever.” Luna had replied with another eye-roll, reversing the direction as if to balance them out. “She doesn’t want to hear about it right now. None of us do.”

“I was just...” Raven began.

“Will you two just shut up, or what?” Octavia had interrupted with her own masterful eye roll. “We’re here for Lexa, remember?”

“Right...” Luna spoke. “How are you, Lex?”

“What an inane question, Luna.” Raven had whispered, as if Lexa weren’t sitting right before them in clear ear-shot of every word being spoken. “Her mother just passed away. How would YOU be at a time like this?” 

“I was being courteous, Raven.” Luna had huffed. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to ask in a situation like this?”

“Will you two shut up?” Octavia had repeated. “You’re not helping.”

“What these idiots are trying to say is we’re all here for you.” Clarke had spoken over the bickering girls. 

“We’re worried about you.” Octavia had added. Luna and Raven had nodded, eyes wide and earnest. It seemed the only thing the girls were in agreement on. 

“I’m fine.” Lexa had said again. But by the stiffness in her back, the sag in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted to the side and her bottom lip pulled in at the words, Clarke knew they were a lie. “Really... You all should go. I just... I just want to be alone right now.”

“Maybe she’s right.” Luna had whispered nervously. “Maybe we should just give her some space. Come on, you guys.” She had tugged at Raven’s and Octavia’s wrists, pulling them towards the door.

“We’re right here when you’re ready, Lexa.” Raven had promised, turning sadly to follow Luna from the room. 

But Clarke was still standing at the edge of the bed, watching Lexa’s bent form, searching for the sea-green eyes that refused to meet hers. Octavia’s fingers wrapped around Clarke’s wrist.

“Come on, Clarke.” Octavia had whispered, tugging her gently away. 

But Clarke had shaken loose of the grip and stepped closer to Lexa. She pulled the shoe box from her backpack and set it down on top of the notebook Lexa had cast to the side. “You don’t have to be alone, Lexa.” She had whispered before finally allowing Octavia to pull her from the room, feeling like she was breaking inside; feeling like she was leaving a piece of herself behind.

 

“Lexa may have said she wanted to be alone, Clarke.” Anya spoke softly, pulling Clarke’s troubled mind back into the muggy, sweaty, present. “But I really think she could use a friend right now. I really think she could use a friend like YOU right now.”

“She doesn’t want to see me right now, Master Anya. She won’t talk to me. I... I... I don’t know how to be there for her. I don’t know what to say; what to do.”

“Sometimes it’s not about saying or doing anything, Clarke.” Anya spoke. “Sometimes being there for someone really is just about being there. Just being there, beside them.”

Clarke knew all too well what Master Anya meant. And yet, the idea of going to Lexa after Lexa had just asked for space and time alone, made her so uncomfortable, she felt like she might throw up. It was something more than discomfort... It was fear.

Clarke still remembered the awful days after her father had died. She remembered how the things that she had once loved... His old worn La-Z-Boy with the stuffing leaking out, the movie Contact, pancakes and lasagna, Mickey Mouse and the smell of Old-Spice aftershave, the space books her father had read to her sitting on her nightstand and the very night sky above her... All of the things that reminded her of her father... Had caused her such unbearable pain, she could never fully love them again. She thought of how Lexa had confessed that for years after her own father died she could not bring herself to look up at the stars, no matter how much beauty they held, because they held the memories too. 

What if Clarke was like the night sky? What if every time Lexa looked at her all she would ever see was Clarke kneeling helplessly over her dying mother? What if Lexa could never look at her the same way again? What if all Clarke could ever bring Lexa now was pain? 

“What if she never forgives me, Master Anya?” Clarke asked, the fear suddenly spilling out of her in hot tears she was powerless to hold back. 

“Forgives you?” Master Anya asked, confused.

“I couldn’t save her, Master Anya. I couldn’t save her.”

Master Anya suddenly threw her arms around Clarke and pulled her close until Clarke’s face could burrow into the curve of her collar bone. “It wasn’t your job to save her, Clarke.” She whispered. “No one could have saved her. You did everything you could to help her. You did so good, kiddo. You did so good.”

‘Kiddo.’ It was the first time Master Anya had ever called Clarke ‘kiddo,’ a name she had always reserved for Lexa. And Clarke felt herself break inside under the weight of the name. She felt herself crumbling in Master Anya’s fierce embrace. She felt herself falling apart. And she felt herself coming back together again.

“No one could help Lexa’s mother, Clarke. No one could have saved her. But Lexa... Well... If anyone can help her now... It’s you.” She pulled away, putting her hands on Clarke’s shoulders as if to impart her own strength into her. “Now, go get yourself out of this nasty, stinky gear and this nasty, stinky studio and go be where you belong.” She opened her fist to reveal a house key. “I’ll pick up some food for the two of you. I’ll make sure I take my sweet time getting home.” She smiled. 

And with a deep breath and the smallest of nods, Clarke plucked the key from Anya’s hand and wrapped her fist around it like courage. 

***...***

LEXA

I lift my gaze just in time to see a flash of the saddest shade of blue as Clarke turns and lets Octavia drag her from the room. 

“Well THAT didn’t exactly go as planned.” I can hear Octavia’s whisper drifting down the empty hall and slinking through the crack in the door. 

“She just needs some time.” Luna says. “Lexa’s strong. She’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know.” Raven says. “I’ve never seen her this... Broken... Before. No matter how morose or disconsolate she’s been in the past... She’s ALWAYS answered my texts and calls. She’s never wanted to be all alone like this. Barricaded in that god-awful overly ebullient room like a patient voluntarily kept in isolation at a mental-health facility...”

“You’re overreacting, Rae.” Luna argues. “She’s just sad, is all. She just lost her mom.”

“I know that, Luna.” Raven shoots right back. “But I just don’t think it’s healthy for her to be all alone right now, navigating through something this traumatic with no one to hold on to.”

“She’s not all alone.” Octavia states. “We told her we’re right here. She knows she’s not alone.”

“But she wants to be.” Clarke says, and even from this distance I can hear the pain in her sigh. “Let’s go, guys.” 

I hear the muffled shuffling of footsteps and the thud of the front door closing like the door of my heart. I suppose I should feel guilty at the pain in my friends’ voices, at the hurt in Clarke’s eyes. I suppose I should feel sad. But I don’t feel anything. 

I pull the old photo album back out from beneath the covers and run my fingers over its worn leather casing, but suddenly I don’t feel like looking through it anymore. I already have all of the photographs memorized anyways. Pictures of my father laughing and my mother rolling her eyes and myself grinning; pictures of the time before; pictures of a time that no longer exists.

I had thought that revisiting these memories might make me feel something inside. When Clarke and the others had stormed into the room, I had already been staring down at the same photograph for ten minutes. It was a picture capturing a chilly spring day at the coast years ago, taken by some kind passerby long forgotten. It was a picture of me grinning proudly squatted next to the ugliest sand-castle on the verge of collapse, my mother and father hovering over me with fingers intertwined and lopsided smiles, all of us bundled ridiculously in snow coats and beanies in front of a furious gray sea. I had stared and stared and stared at the picture, waiting to feel something. But I could not feel the pride of the little girl with the toothless grin or the contentment of the couple framing her. I couldn’t feel the rage of the stormy ocean or the despair of the crumbling sand-castle. I had waited for the pain. I had waited for the tears to finally fall. But all I had felt was as empty as the gap between that little girl’s teeth; as indifferent as the stranger who had paused to snap the photo and then had continued walking down that beach, already forgetting the family she had left behind.

I had stared and stared and stared. And still the tears had not come. And I wonder if there is something broken in me. Because I should be crying and hurting and aching inside. But still I feel nothing.

I sigh and cast the book aside then turn my eyes to the shoe box that Clarke left beside me. Despite the enormous black swish on the lid, something tells me this box doesn’t contain a shiny new pair of Nikes. I hesitate, inexplicably nervous to open it. 

“You don’t have to be alone, Lexa.” Clarke had whispered. And the words reverberate inside of me. But Clarke is wrong.

I am alone. I am alone. I am alone. 

I suck in a breath and pry the lid from the box and I feel the air catch inside of me. I pluck a star from inside and dig my fingertips into its plastic points and the memory floods my mind like starlight.

My first sleepover at Clarke’s house, laying beside her in the darkness, my belly so full of cheese pizza and double-stuffed Oreos and fake-butter popcorn and grape soda I was worried I might puke. And yet, there we were lying side-by-side popping Dots (the only candy besides Smarties and licorice still left in Clarke’s Halloween stash) into our mouths and chomping down into the chewy sweetness with freshly brushed teeth. 

Before I popped each Dot into my mouth, I had held it up before me, trying to inspect it in the semi-darkness, with little more than the glow of the fake stars on her ceiling for light.

“What are you doing, Lexa?” Clarke had asked.

“I don’t like the yellow or green ones.” I had answered.

“What are you talking about?” Clarke had laughed. “The lemon-lime ones are the best.”

“That’s what my dad always said.” I had whispered back, torn between the urge to laugh and the sudden pain in my chest. “He loved Dots. Besides Baby Ruth, they were always his favorite. He used to eat all the green and yellow and let me have all the red and orange. Dots always remind me of him.” I had sighed, my throat suddenly tight. I never talked about dad with anyone, but, even back then, with Clarke... Well, sometimes things just came out.

Clarke hadn’t said anything for a long moment. She had just lain there, chewing thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling above us.

“These stars always remind me of my dad.” She had finally said. “He gave them to me when I was little, right before he had to leave for two weeks on a business trip. He told me that no matter where either of us was around the world, the stars above us would always be the same. And I told him, ‘No daddy, if you’re going to Australia, the stars will be different there, it’s the Southern Hemisphere.’And he laughed and said I was just too smart for my own good. But what he meant was that even if the stars were different, wherever he was, he could look up at them, and wherever I was, I could look up at them, and it would be just like we were together again. And as long as we could look up at the stars, we could know we were never alone.”

I toss the plastic star back into the box and pull the bulging Ziploc baggy onto my lap. And I reach into the clumps of red and orange. And I place the Dot on the center of my tongue and push it against the wall of my teeth until the sweetness of artificial berries coats my mouth. And finally, finally, finally, the tears flood my eyes and cascade down my cheeks, and fall like raindrops splattering the stars.

Finally, finally, finally, I feel something inside.


	30. Ten Parts Pure Confusion

Chapter 30  
Ten Parts Pure Confusion  
OR  
The Girl in the Hideous Corduroy Overalls and the Girl with All the Weird Feels 

 

CLARKE

 

“Lexa?” Clarke whispered, giving the door a small push and peeking her head through the crack into the darkness. It was only nine-thirty or so, but already Lexa had her lights out, her covers drawn up to the knob of her chin. Clarke wondered if she might already be sleeping, but the reflection of the hall light shining off of Lexa’s pupils like the tiniest of candle flames, told her Lexa was still awake, staring up at the ceiling.

“Clarke?” Lexa asked, turning her eyes to Clarke in surprise.

Clarke pushed her way through the door and paused at its edge. “I ran through a hundred stupid jokes in my head on the way here...” She said with a nervous breath. “Trying to think of the perfect one to make you laugh; trying to think of what your dad might have said to bring an end to the bad days and make everything right again. But... I couldn’t think of anything.” She confessed.

“Truth is...” She sighed, running her fingers through her hair awkwardly. Her hair was still sweaty from her match with Aden, and now she was sweating again with nerves. “I’m not like your dad... I don’t know what to say or do to make things right, or even just make things better.”

“So...” She paused, chewing on the raw spot on her lip, ignoring the sting and the bitter taste of blood. “I’m not going to try. I’m just going to ask... Can I come in?”

“Of course you can, Clarke.” Lexa answered, her voice soft and heavy. “I’m sorry I pushed you away earlier. I was just...”

Lexa paused long enough for Clarke to interrupt. “You don’t have to apologize, Lexa.” She said, perching herself on the edge of Lexa’s mattress. Clarke remembered exactly how she had felt in the days after her father’s accident, the anger that had welled inside of her every time some well-meaning relative or family friend had tried to offer her a word of comfort, as if they knew exactly what she was going through, as if they could ever understand how she felt inside. And there she was earlier, thinking she knew exactly what Lexa was going through; thinking she understood how Lexa felt inside; thinking she could offer her a word of comfort. And she couldn’t blame Lexa for being angry or distant or cold. And she didn’t want to hear her apologize for any of it. 

“Thanks for giving me your stars.” Lexa said, her voice small and fragile, cracking. “I know how much they mean to you.”

Clarke glanced up to see her stars shining valiantly above and, without bothering to ask for permission, leaned back to lay across the foot of Lexa’s little bed so she could see them properly. 

“I only gave you half of them.” Clarke admitted. “I figured that way...” She swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “You could look up at them every night and know that I was looking up at their other half, and... Like my dad said... In a way we’d... We’d be together. You wouldn’t be alone.” 

“Because you see...” She continued. “I was thinking... Remember that time after you TKO’d Onatari’s ass in the finals at states and she attacked you in the locker room?”

“You mean that time you executed the most breathtaking palm strike I’d ever seen and turned Ontari’s nose into a pancake? And she bled everywhere?” Lexa answered with the smallest of chuckles. “Of course I remember. How could I not? It was... As Lincoln would say... epic. And she swore she was going to get revenge on you, but she’s been terrified ever since.”

“Right...” Clarke said, smiling at the memory. It was true, Ontari had avoided them and, by default, Raven and Octavia and everyone else in their circle, ever since. She still snarled whenever they passed in the halls, but she was like a scared dog with its teeth bared even as its tail curled up between its legs. 

“Well...” Clarke continued. “Remember what I told you afterwards? You said you could fight for yourself. And I said ‘I know, but I was thinking from now on, we could...’

“Fight together.” Lexa finished for her, whispering the words like a prayer.

“Right...” Clarke answered, sitting back up and swiveling to face Lexa. Lexa propped herself up onto her elbows to meet her gaze. Clarke’s stomach was turning inside of her. For some stupid reason she couldn’t identify, she was still ridiculously nervous. 

“Well, I was thinking, Lexa...” She began slowly. “Not all opponents are bullies with ugly sneers and fat noses just waiting to be busted open. Not all fights can be won with a palm strike or a spinning-hook-kick. Some fights aren’t nearly that easy. But... But...” She stammered. “But that doesn’t mean we still can’t fight them together... You still don’t have to fight alone. I’m still... I’m still here. I’m... I’m always here, Lexa.”

Lexa pushed herself up and pulled her legs in so that she was sitting close enough for Clarke to see the light slinking through the crack in the door shimmering in her eyes like moonlight on the still surface of a lake. And the sight of tears building in her best friend’s eyes was enough to make her throat tighten and her own eyes burn. 

“Thank you, Clarke.” Lexa spoke and before Clarke could react, Lexa leaned forward and flung her arms around her.

Clarke and Lexa had shared hugs countless times over the years. There were the hugs of laughter and jumping and embracing during moments of great joy. There were the hugs of holding onto one another during moments of extreme heartbreak and crippling fear and immeasurable grief when words simply fell short. And there were the hugs of a thousand little moments of life in between. They had always been smooth. They had always felt natural. And Clarke had never thought twice about them. But something about this particular hug, on this particular night, in this particular moment, was... Different.

In just what way it was different, Clarke could never say. It was different in a way that made her skin too hot and her racing heart beat too fast. It was different in a way that made it suddenly difficult to breathe. Different in a way that made her chest feel too tight, like her heart was swelling or maybe her rib cage was closing in. And the feeling rising in the middle of it all was one part complete contentment and one part bitter longing and ten parts pure confusion.

Lexa’s hug was altogether soft and altogether fierce. And part of Clarke wanted to collapse into it, to sink into it like water and never pull out of it again. And the other part of Clarke wanted to leap back immediately, to back away from it like a finger from a flame. 

And Clarke could never say if it was she or Lexa who stiffened first. She could not say who pulled back from the other. But just as suddenly as the hug had begun, it had ended. And Clarke was one part relieved and one part disappointed and still ten parts utterly confused. But at least she could breathe again.

“Uhhh....” Clarke cleared her throat awkwardly. Her mouth was inexplicably dry, her throat so tight it hurt to swallow. “You don’t have to thank me, Lexa.”

“Yes, I do.” Lexa replied, her voice so serious that Clarke didn’t bother to argue against it. She was staring at Clarke, and even in the semi-darkness her gaze was so intense that Clarke had to back away from it before it could burn her. She had meant to scooch backwards, to create space between them. But as soon as Clarke pushed her palms against the bed for leverage, she let out a shriek and pulled her hand back in. She had dug her fingers into something squishy and lumpy and unknown. 

“It’s just the Dots you gave me, Clarke.” Lexa chuckled, plucking the sack of candy from the darkness beside Clarke’s thigh. And just like that, the strange awkwardness between them, the thick tension Clarke had been drowning in only moments earlier, dissolved into the air like sugar on the tongue. “No need to freak out. Want one?” 

“No.” Clarke answered with a sigh of relief and embarrassment. “My tongue is still numb from all the yellow and green ones I ate this morning. I’m probably going to poop chartreuse tomorrow.” She laughed.

“That sounds like something my dad would have said.” Lexa said, leaning back against the headboard and scooching to one side of the tiny bed to make enough room for Clarke to squeeze in beside her. Clarke could still hear the sadness in Lexa’s voice, but there was now an unmistakable note of humor in it too. “My mom always hated it when he made poop or fart jokes. She called them ‘infantile’ and said he had a ‘basal’ sense of humor.’”

“Now, THAT sounds like something RAVEN would say.” Clarke laughed. She slid in next to Lexa and tried to relax against the headboard beside her. And she tried to ignore the heat radiating from the places where their bodies met. Even through the layer of her sweat pants and ‘climacool’ running jacket, Clarke could feel the warmth of Lexa’s skin burning against her own. Or perhaps it was Clarke’s skin, not Lexa’s, that was burning. 

How many times had Clarke leaned against Lexa over the years? How had she never noticed the incredible amounts of heat generated by their proximity? Clarke was sweating again. She couldn’t help but wonder if Lexa was burning up too. But Lexa only pulled the covers higher over her checkered purple pajamas as if oblivious to the warmth rolling off of Clarke like heatwaves off of sun-soaked asphalt. Clarke was beginning to wonder if maybe she was feverish. 

“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Lexa laughed. And Clarke would have commented, but distracted as she was, she had already forgotten what it was Lexa was agreeing to. Clarke couldn’t say what they were talking about any more than she could say why the hell she was so hot; why the hell her heart was pounding again; why the hell her nerves were on edge again.

The sudden squawk of a door being wrenched open sent Clarke jumping to her feet. The sound had come from down the hall.

“It’s just Master Anya getting home.” Lexa laughed as Clarke’s fingers groped the wall in search of the light switch. “God, you’re jumpy tonight.” 

Clarke flooded the room with light and Lexa cringed, covering her eyes against the brightness, the blinding power of the light magnified by the intense yellow hue of the room.

“You’re acting weird.” Lexa commented, squinting at Clarke through a slit between her fingers.

“No, I’m not.” Clarke replied. 

“Yes, you are.” Lexa argued.

It was the exact opposite of the conversation they had had in Clarke’s living room only days ago, before everything had been flipped around and tossed and battered. And this time it was Clarke who was grateful for an interruption.

“Room Service.” Master Anya’s voice drifted through the cracked door, accompanied by the soft rapping of her knuckles on wood. “Dinner delivery.”

Clarke pulled the door open further to accept Anya’s offering. “Thanks, Master Anya.” She said. 

“If you can get her to eat...” Master Anya whispered. “I’ll be the one thanking YOU, Clarke.” And with the smallest of smiles and the tiniest of winks, Master Anya turned and pulled the door shut behind her.

“Boy, Master Anya must really love you.” Clarke commented, surveying the packages Master Anya had shoved into her arms. 

“I know.” Lexa said with a little smile. “What’d she get? I haven’t eaten in...” She paused, awkwardly. Clarke had the feeling Lexa hadn’t been able to stomach much of anything since her mother had died. Clarke hadn’t eaten for days after her father’s accident. She knew what it was like to have so much pain in your belly that there wasn’t any room left for hunger. “Well...” Lexa said. “Let’s just say, ‘I’m starving.’”

“Good thing.” Clarke laughed. “Because I can’t eat this all on my own... Pepperoni pizza, postickers, and a jumbo box of Raisinettes.”

“Pizza, potstickers, AND Raisinettes?” Lexa exclaimed, her eyes now wide with excitement. “Master Anya knows me too well.” She laughed, pulling her legs in to make space for the food in the center of the bed. She pushed a battered leather book aside and pulled the bag of Dots out of the way. Then, growing serious as she stared down at the red and orange candies in her hand, she added. “So do you.”

Clarke set the food down and glanced at the book. It’s cover had flipped open as Lexa pushed it aside and Clarke could see the image of a tall, gangly man laughing, dangling a little girl upside-down by her ankles. She could barely see the girl’s grin peeking through the curtain of her wild brown hair, but there was no mistaking that smile. It was Lexa... Tiny, adorable, innocent Lexa.

“No I don’t.” Clarke answered, reaching for the photo-album. “Actually, I don’t think I know you nearly well enough.”

Clarke didn’t ask whether or not she could look through the album. She knew it was personal, a visual record of Lexa’s past, like a diary written in convenient four-by-six blocks of color forever preserved in little slits of plastic. But the urge to flip through it was too powerful to be denied or even delayed, and if Lexa was bothered by Clarke’s prying, she didn’t say anything or move to stop her. She just flipped open the lid to the pizza box and sat back, chewing silently while watching Clarke peruse through the old bits and pieces of her childhood.

“For instance...” Clarke grinned, lifting the book for Lexa to see. “I don’t know this cute little nerd at all.” 

Clarke pointed at a photo of Lexa flashing peace signs at the camera from the base of a giant redwood tree which dwarfed the lanky man standing beside her as much as he dwarfed her. She looked to be about seven or eight and was wearing a tie-dye tee shirt peeking out from beneath the denim cover of a worn pair of overalls. The bottoms of her pants’ legs were rolled up to reveal striped white socks protruding from pink and black high-tops that looked laughably out of place in the mud and pine needles at her feet.

“Oh yeah...” Lexa laughed, blushing slightly. “That was during my unfortunate overalls phase. I had three different pairs I would rotate through. But don’t worry... I changed it up all the time by sometimes wearing one strap down or... Occasionally... no straps at all.” She said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“How risque.” Clarke teased. 

“If you keep looking through there you’ll probably notice the equally unfortunate corduroy phase; not to mention the baggy tee-shirts phase, the turtle-neck phase... I could rock a turtleneck like you wouldn’t even know.” Lexa interrupted herself, nodding at Clarke with a goofy smile. “But that phase was sadly short-lived because they were just too hot and they made my neck itchy. Then there’s the superhero or cat shirts phases too. Sometimes...” Lexa added, dropping her voice seductively. “I even combined phases, such as in the picture of me at Multnomah falls wearing a baggy Mighty Mouse shirt beneath corduroy overalls.”

“Oh... I can’t wait for that one.” Clarke laughed, pulling the book back into her lap and snagging a slice of pizza. “Sounds like the outfit of someone destined to be a true-blue, heart-breaker.”

“Honestly...” Lexa said. “I can’t believe my parents let me out of the house in some of the outfits I came up with. I mean... My dad was partly colorblind so I can’t really blame him... But my mom? Well... I guess even back then she wasn’t really known for being one to offer up good motherly advice, even where fashion was concerned.” 

The sadness was back in Lexa’s voice, spilling into it and spreading like cream poured into coffee. She set her half-eaten slice of pizza down on the box’s lid and stared off into the corner, her glazed eyes lingering on the god-awful daisy-covered wall paper. But Clarke knew her mind wasn’t there on those flowers or even in this room. She wondered if Lexa’s mind was back in that hard plastic chair in the hospital hallway, or back in her apartment watching Clarke do CPR on her convulsing mother, or somewhere else entirely, years back in a different world, a world where Lexa dressed herself because she WANTED to, not because she had no one else to help her. 

Wherever Lexa had gone, Clarke couldn’t follow. She flipped the page, letting the silence linger between them for a moment. 

“You never told me you won the spelling bee in second grade.” Clarke finally said, clearing her throat to pull Lexa back to the present. She held up the album again, smiling down at the picture of little Lexa holding a fancy certificate and wearing a crooked ponytail, an ugly red cardigan with her corduroys, and a pronounced pout. 

Lexa blinked, momentarily disoriented. Then, focusing her eyes on the picture, she let out a small chuckle. 

“I didn’t.” She said. “If you look closer, you’ll see that’s a SECOND place award. Monty beat me in the finals. If you can’t tell from the bratty look on my face, I’m pissed as hell in that picture. Worst part was, Monty was so nice, even back then, that I couldn’t even hate him for kicking my ass. The only good thing is that I’ve never once misspelled ‘separate’ since.”

“Well, despite your pout, which... I have to say hasn’t changed a bit since then.... Apparently you mastered it at a young age...”

“Oh...” Lexa interrupted with a smirk. “By the second grade I had already put years of practice into developing the perfect pout.”

“Well, despite the pout...” Clarke repeated. “Your father sure looks proud of you.” In this picture the gangly man had one large hand draped over the crown of Lexa’s head, as if frozen in the process of mussing her hair. Again he was grinning. Again the laughter shone in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Lexa half chuckled, half sighed. “He always was. Proud of me, that is. I could have lost on the first round... I could have spelled ‘cat’ with a K... He still would have treated me like I was the smartest, most-talented, all-around best kid he could have asked for. Really... I was nothing special. But HE... He was the best dad I could have ever asked for.”

The way Lexa spoke about her father, Clarke knew that Lexa viewed him as a hero. But... By the way her father grinned down at Lexa in this photograph and in so many of the others... It was clear that the man had held LEXA as HIS hero. And Clarke couldn’t help but agree with him. Lexa was wrong... She was far from ‘nothing special.’ 

“Tell me about this one.” Clarke said, holding up a picture of Lexa and her father standing on what appeared to be the very edge of a cliff. Lexa looked to be about ten and was dressed in a bathing suit, her wet hair plastered to her shoulders, her hands on her hips, and a sassy, judgmental look on her face, clearly aimed at her father.

“That was at Crater Lake.” Lexa said, “Just before my dad... Well, before everything happened... He took us on a little road trip to see it. There’s a rock there that everyone jumps off of and he pinky-promised me that if I jumped off, he would too. I think he thought I would chicken out. But I didn’t even hesitate. Just ran to the edge and leaped right off of it. And HE was the one who chickened out. I swear it took forty-five minutes of me and my mom heckling him before he finally jumped.”

Clarke chuckled, plunked a potsticker into her mouth and turned the page to see Lexa’s mother perched over a fluffy pink cake smothered in rainbow sprinkles, wearing a party hat and a weary smile. 

“Mom’s fortieth birthday.” Lexa explained. “She was two months older than my dad, and he really rubbed that in that year, teasing her about how she was such an old lady. He was only joking of course, but mom didn’t really find it funny. I decorated that cake all by myself, by the way.”

“Really? If you asked me, I would have sworn it was store-bought. Only a professional would use sprinkles so masterfully.” Clarke laughed teasingly. “How old were you, like four? Five?”

“I was nine.” Lexa said, her voice tinged with offense. 

“Oh.” Clarke replied, trying not to laugh at the hurt look on Lexa’s face. But a second later Lexa’s frown flipped into a grin and she gave Clarke a playful shove before snatching the last potsticker and popping it into her mouth before Clarke could object. 

“I know...” She laughed through a mouthful of pork and cabbage and soy sauce. “It was hideous. But my dad loved it. He ate enough to turn his tongue neon pink and make his stomach sick. And my mom at least pretended to like it.” 

Clarke flipped through photo after photo as the pizza and the potstickers and even the Raisinettes disappeared bite by bite. And her eyes felt as heavy as her stomach when she finally closed the album, lamenting the fact that it had to come to an end. Tired as she was, she could have spent the entire night staring into the pieces of Lexa’s past, soaking in her stories, learning about the little girl who loved rainbow sprinkles and hightops; the girl who felt no fear stepping off the edge of a cliff; the girl who hated coming in second place but could never hold a grudge against a fair, gracious victor; the girl who’s sassy pouts and goofy grins had once lit up her father’s eyes and now did the same for Clarke’s. 

Clarke felt like she was finally seeing so many new bits of Lexa, like the dragonflies and frogs and tadpoles appearing in that little pond so many years ago. And the more she sat and studied Lexa, the deeper she looked, the more she learned... The more she craved to see and hear and know more.

She finally handed the album to Lexa. “Thanks for sharing that with me, Lexa.” She said, knowing those simple words could never express how much it had meant to her. 

“Thanks for being here, Clarke.” Lexa replied, her voice as choked as Clarke’s. And Clarke could only wonder if Lexa also felt like her own words were not enough.

Clarke didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. She just nodded with a small half-smile and leaned back tiredly onto her elbows.

“You think Master Anya’s OK with me crashing here?” She asked with a yawn. “Aden kicked my ass tonight and I’m WAY too tired to climb back into the Ark and drive home.”

Lexa didn’t answer right away. Was it Clarke’s imagination, or had Lexa stiffened at her words? She was looking down at the photo album in her hands, fingering the broken leather of one tattered corner, chewing on her bottom lip and avoiding Clarke’s gaze.

“I’m sure Master Anya would be fine with you staying the night.” She finally answered. 

Clarke hesitated. Maybe Lexa didn’t want her to stay. Maybe she wanted to be alone again. Clarke figured the respectful thing to do would be to say goodbye and give Lexa her space. But... It was more than just the idea of marching her tired ass down the hall and climbing into her van and making the five mile drive (a distance that seemed impossibly far at the moment) home and dragging that same tired ass up the stairs and into her own bed. It was more than just laziness. Something deep inside of Clarke... Something unidentifiable, but real and powerful... didn’t want to leave this room; didn’t want to leave Lexa.

“Ummm...” Clarke began, suddenly nervous again. “It’s OK with YOU if I crash here... right? I mean... I can go if you want...” 

“No.” Lexa answered, finally meeting Clarke’s eyes. “I mean... Yes. I mean...” She paused, blushing nervously. “Of course it’s OK with me if you stay. Why wouldn’t it be?” She laughed, acting casual. But Clarke wasn’t wholly convinced. Lexa still seemed rigid, awkward... Distant. 

She set her photo album aside and piled the empty food containers in the corner, clearing the bed, as Clarke watched her, still hesitating, debating whether to stay or go. Lexa still seemed unusually uncomfortable, and as much as she wanted to stay, Clarke didn’t want to do anything to upset her.

“You’re sure it’s OK?” Clarke asked again, her stomach turning within her as she waited for Lexa’s reply. Why the hell did she have butterflies? Lexa had spent the night at her house tons of times over the years, staying up all night talking and laughing and eating junk while watching old movies over and over again, or simply passing out after hours of studying and reading and writing until their eyes burned and their brains threatened to short-out like a fried hard-drive. It had never been a big deal. But again, Clarke felt like something about tonight was... different. 

Clarke stared at Lexa, watching her for the signs. One bite of her lip or swivel of her eyes, one shifting of her feet or run of her fingers through her hair, and Clarke would up and go. But Lexa finally gave her a small, but genuine smile. 

“Course I’m sure, Clarke.” She said. “You can stay. You can ALWAYS stay. But...”

Clarke’s stomach dropped at the word, the strange excitement that had suddenly welled inside of her now swallowed by an even stranger swell of disappointment. The emotions were swirling inside of her, rising and fading and changing so rapidly she couldn’t make sense of any of them.

“You have to promise...” Lexa continued. “No attacking me while we’re asleep.”

“Hey...” Clarke protested, feeling the disappointment evaporate as quickly as it had washed over her. She laughed at the memory of their sleepover years ago. She had been dreaming of sparring and had suddenly lashed out on a helplessly sleeping Lexa with a series of well-placed kicks. “That happened ONE time.” 

“Only because from that night on, I made sure to pack pillows between us as a precaution.” Lexa argued with a rise of her brow. “But there’s not enough room for the both of us AND a pillow buffer in this bed...”

“I promise I’ll keep my hands and feet to myself.” Clarke grinned, lifting her palms before her in submission. “No sleep-sparring.”

“Good.” Lexa replied with a teasing, lopsided smile. “Because that kick you nailed me with flippin’ hurt. And you hit a whole lot harder now than you did when we were twelve.” She added, flicking the light off as Clarke already settled in. 

Clarke hadn’t bothered to brush her teeth. She hadn’t bothered to shower. She probably smelled like sweaty sparring gear and soy sauce and pepperoni. But if Lexa noticed, she didn’t say anything as she laid down beside her. They laid side-by-side in silence for a long moment, nothing but the sounds of their breathing in the space between them. 

“Thanks again for the stars, Clarke.” Lexa finally whispered. “And for the Dots and for... You know... For always...” 

“Hey...” Clarke cut her off, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks again. “You already thanked me. And I already told you the first time, you didn’t have to.”

“I know...” Lexa spoke to the stars above them. “But... I wanted to say thanks for...” She paused long enough for Clarke to notice the heat radiating in the narrow space between them again, long enough for her stomach to restart its twisting and turning. “Thanks for always being there for me... For always having my back.”

“You’re always there for me, Lexa.” Clarke replied, her throat tightening again, threatening to swallow her words. “You always have my back, too.” 

“Still...” Lexa said, sleepily. “Thanks.” And with that, her fingers found Clarke’s in the darkness. And despite the sweat collecting in her palm, Clarke intertwined her fingers with Lexa’s. And her heart was racing again. And that strange, confusing achy tightness in her chest was back. And it was long after Lexa’s breathing slowed and her hand went limp in Clarke’s that sleep finally pulled Clarke’s eyes from the glow of the stars above and into the abyss of dreams and nothingness.


	31. Sleeping In

Chapter 31  
Sleeping In  
OR  
Tangled Up in Cuddles and Compliments and Whole New Levels of Confusion

CLARKE

 

Clarke slowly woke to the sweet scent of coconuts and vanilla sugar cookies; a smell she vaguely recognized as familiar though she could not place it; a smell that none the less, conjured feelings of happiness and safety and belonging. She breathed it in for a moment, encased in warmth and utter comfort, delaying the inevitable task of opening her eyes. 

And as the seconds passed her foggy brain slowly became aware of her other senses... The soft, rhythmic sound of breathing in her ear; the tickle of hair against her cheek; the warmth of skin against her own... And Clarke finally came to the sudden realization that she was not alone.

Clarke’s eyes shot open not to the sea-green that greeted her every morning, but rather to brown all around. And suddenly she was wide, wide awake, realizing that the brown surrounding her, the source of the coconut vanilla scent enveloping her, was the curtain of Lexa’s wild, wavy hair. 

Clarke had her face nuzzled into the curve of Lexa’s neck, her forehead resting against the soft edge of her jaw. Her fingers were still woven into Lexa’s and now both her arm and her leg were wrapped around her too. 

Clarke was so, so comfortable... She wanted to lay there forever.

Clarke was so, so horrified... She couldn’t lay there another second.

What would Lexa think if she woke up to find Clarke draped all over her like a human blanket, snuggling into her like... Like... a lover? Clarke’s heart leapt in her chest at the thought. She would be absolutely mortified. She didn’t recall kicking Lexa during the night, but somehow she had managed to weave herself into and around the curves of Lexa and she reckoned that this hardly qualified as keeping her hands and feet to herself. 

Clarke laid there, considering her options, worried that the very thumping of her heart might be loud enough to wake the sleeping girl beside her. Somehow she needed to detangle herself from Lexa without her noticing. If Lexa woke up... How would Clarke possibly explain the position she was currently in? Could she make Lexa believe that it was unintentional, that she had never planned on cuddling up against her? The prospect was terrifying. 

And even more terrifying... So terrifying that Clarke shoved the thought from her mind almost as quickly as it arose... Had it been unintentional? 

No... Clarke thought to herself, of course it had not been intentional. She had been asleep, after all. Surely she had just been drawn to Lexa’s warmth, nothing more. Never mind the fact that Lexa still felt altogether right against her. Never mind that their bodies seemed to fit perfectly, that the curve of Lexa’s neck was more comfortable than a pillow, the feel of her firm tummy under Clarke’s arm softer than the mattress beneath her, the heat of her leg against Clarke’s warmer than the blanket above. Never mind that Clarke had slept more deeply and peacefully with Lexa’s fingers entangled in her own than she could remember sleeping in... Well... Longer than she could remember. Never mind that she had awoken feeling utterly, incomprehensibly content. 

Never mind any of that. Clarke had never intended to get herself into this position. And she needed to extricate herself from it immediately. There was no way in hell she was going to let Lexa find her like this. 

Clarke held her breath, gathering her courage, feeling like she was preparing to pull a Band-aid off. She wondered if she should do it slowly or just get it over with in one clean, painful flash. She decided she would try the slow approach first and at the first sign of catastrophe she would implement the back up plan. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Clarke began to pull her head out of the hollow of Lexa’s neck, separating herself from the unruly locks of Lexa’s hair. (God, Lexa’s hair smelled good... But never mind that). She focused on her leg next, feeling like Indiana Jones trying to remove a precious artifact from its booby-trapped stand. Could she lift her leg without Lexa’s sleepy mind registering the shifting of such weight? There was only one way to find out. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Clarke began to lift her leg. But the second her weight lifted from Lexa, Lexa began to stir. 

Oh shit! Clarke’s mind screamed. And before she could stop herself, she was pulling away from Lexa like a swimmer from a shark. All panic. No thought. All instinct. No grace. 

Her leg caught in the blanket and her arm yanked Lexa’s before her fingers slipped loose and her back met the edge of the bed and then immediately rolled over it. And in an instant, Clarke was on the floor, splayed on her belly, her legs twisted and tangled in the blankets.

“Clarke?” Lexa asked groggily as Clarke rolled onto her back, attempting to free herself from the jumble of blankets. Lexa’s blinking face appeared above her, peeking over the edge of the bed to frown down at her. Her hair cascaded from her face, its tips hovering over Clarke and filling the air again with the scent that made Clarke’s mind foggy. “What are you doing on the floor? Are you OK?”

“Yeah!” Clarke answered, perhaps a little too excitedly. “I’m fine. I just... I must have rolled off the bed. I think I was sleeping right on the edge. I was trying to give you space so I wouldn’t kick you.” She lied. She hadn’t been on the edge. She had been smack-dab in the middle. She hadn’t been giving Lexa space. She had obliterated what little space there had been between them, filling even the air between them like a flame consuming oxygen. 

“Well... As much as I appreciate that...” Lexa said, digging a knuckle into her sleepy sea-green eyes. “You kinda stole the blanket. It’s flipping freezing.”

“Oh, sorry.” Clarke replied, finally freeing herself from the blanket’s hold on her and springing to her feet quickly enough to raise Lexa’s eyebrows. She knew what Lexa was thinking... Clarke was acting weird again.

“Here, you can have it back.” Clarke said as Lexa rolled onto her back and propped herself onto her elbows to stare at her. Clarke bundled up the blanket and offered it to Lexa, her nervous energy causing her to shove it into Lexa’s tummy a bit too forcefully. Lexa just kept staring at Clarke, her eyebrows now furrowed.

“Thanks.” She mumbled, unballing the mess and wrapping it around her as Clarke stood awkwardly beside the bed unsure of what to do next. Part of her wanted to climb back under the covers beside Lexa. Part of her wanted to turn and bolt from the room, to run from the heat of Lexa’s searching gaze, before Lexa could catch a glimpse of the truth Clarke had kept from her in the panic in her eyes or in the pink in her cheeks. 

But Lexa seemed more confused than suspicious of anything. “What time is it?” She asked with a yawn.

What a good question. Clarke had no idea. Usually checking the time was the first thing she did after opening her eyes. But then again, usually she didn’t wake to find herself wrapped around her best friend like a stranded camper in the arctic seeking a warm body to stave off the frostbite.

“Oh shit!” She exclaimed, staring down in disbelief at the glowing numbers streaking across the face of her galaxy phone. “I forgot to set my alarm last night. We totally overslept! School starts in ten minutes! We gotta go! Wait...” She paused as Lexa’s only reaction to her panic was to nestle back down into the pillows and pull the covers in tighter around her. “You ARE coming, right?” 

“I have something I need to do today.” Lexa answered cryptically. “Something I’ve been putting off for a very long time. But don’t worry... I’m feeling a lot better now. I’ll start back tomorrow. Take more notes for me?”

“Of course.” Clarke mumbled distractedly. She was looking down at her clothes, taking stock of the mess of herself. She was still dressed in the grungy sweat pants and running jacket she had thrown on after practice the night before. She couldn’t walk the halls in this all day, looking like she just wandered out of gym class. But she didn’t exactly have time to go home and get cleaned up either. 

“Need to borrow some clothes?” Lexa asked as if she could read Clarke’s mind. “Master Anya put everything I own in that dresser. Help yourself. It’s all clean... I haven’t worn anything besides these pajamas in days.” She said with a small, sad chuckle.

“Thanks.” Clarke answered. 

She pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and, blushing furiously at the sight of Lexa’s underwear, immediately shoved it closed again. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d seen Lexa’s underwear before. She’d seen Lexa IN her underwear before. Hell... She’d even helped her pick some of it out. Clarke and Lexa went shopping together all the time (though it was usually Lexa helping Clarke find the right outfits since Lexa never had a whole lot of cash to spare) and the sight of Lexa in a sports bra and undies had never once made Clarke blush, just as stripping down to her own undies in front of Lexa had never once phased her. But again, Clarke felt it... Something was... Different. 

And now, as she pulled out a pair of jeans and a flannel from the sparse contents of the bottom two drawers, Clarke glanced behind her nervously. And it was only after seeing that Lexa’s eyes had closed again as she pulled the covers up to her chin, that Clarke pulled off her jacket and wriggled quickly out of her sweatpants. 

Clarke and Lexa were close enough to the same size to share clothes, but the fit wasn’t quite perfect. Though slender, Lexa’s hips were built wider than Clarke’s and her butt, molded by years of squats and lunges and kicks and sprints up Nut-Cracker Hill, was fuller than Clarke’s, so that Lexa’s jeans sagged slightly on Clarke. On the other hand, Clarke could barely fasten the buttons on Lexa’s flannel shirt and she would have to remind herself all day long not to breathe too deeply, or she might just bust one of them. 

“Damn, Clarke.” Lexa mumbled, watching her through a slit in her sleepy eyes. “How is it you look better in my shirt than I do? I swear... It’s just not fair.” She said, shaking her head with a jealous smile. 

“Whatever...” Clarke laughed nervously, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks again. “I wish I could fill out these jeans like you do. After all, guys are all about the booty, right?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” Lexa shrugged, propping herself up onto her elbows. “No guy’s ever showed any interest in my booty.”

“I don’t know why not. You have a great booty.” Clarke replied. The words were honest and they spilled out of her before she could stop to consider them. 

“Really?” Lexa asked, cocking her head in surprise. Her eyebrows were still furrowed at Clarke as if she were struggling to make sense of her. Only, now she looked uncertain as to whether she should laugh or not. “You think I have a nice butt?”

“Well, yeah...” Clarke answered with a shrug. Her cheeks were on fire again, as hot as her side had burned against Lexa’s the night before. Her heart was pounding again, her brain was fogging, and she felt... Weird. Maybe she really was coming down with something. 

“I mean...it’s...” She stammered, struggling to make words into sentences. “It’s... It’s nice and strong, you know? I mean... Like muscular.... But at the same time, it’s like... Lean, you know? But not like skinny and flat. Just... Lean. And your legs...” She paused her inane ramblings, feeling inexplicably flustered by this strange topic of conversation. How had she come to be complimenting Lexa on her ass? When had she even come to notice the strength or the shape of Lexa’s backside? 

Lexa was still staring at her with that look of concerned confusion. Just like Clarke, she obviously had no clue as to why Clarke was acting so strange. Clarke took a calming breath.

“What I mean is...” She said, clearing her throat nervously. “If I was a guy... I’d totally be into it.” 

Lexa just blinked at her, still wearing that same confused expression. “If you were a guy...” 

“Right.” Clarke mumbled, wiping her sweating palms against the baggy ass of Lexa’s jeans. “If I were a guy... Which I’m not.”

This time Lexa did laugh, amusement overpowering her confusion and erupting from her in one loud bark of laughter. “Thanks for clarifying that. I mean... I HAD noticed that a while ago...” She teased as the fire in Clarke’s cheeks burned even hotter. 

“Well, if I were a guy...” She added, still chuckling. “I’d say you have a pretty nice ass too, Clarke. Not to mention, nice eyes and a nice smile and... Well... Other things.” She paused, flashing a teasing smirk. “But just to be clear... I’m not a guy either.” 

“Are you making fun of me?” Clarke asked, her hands on her hips and her head tilted. She wasn’t sure if Lexa was complimenting her or teasing her or both. 

Lexa just chuckled. “Don’t you have to get to school?” She asked. “I mean... You have notes to take, remember?”

“Oh shit.” Clarke answered. “You’re right... I gotta go. Good thing I left my backpack in the Ark. Though I didn’t exactly finish my homework...” She turned and paused at the door. “I’ll see you...”

“Later.” Lexa finished for her with a smile. 

“Right...” Clarke replied. “Later.” 

“Hey...” Lexa called sleepily as Clarke finally stepped through the threshold and into the hallway. “Master Anya got me a whole variety pack of toothbrushes... They’re under the sink.”

“Thanks.”

“Have fun at school.” Lexa laughed, calling to Clarke’s back as she finally turned and rushed away.


	32. Fun at School

Chapter 32  
Fun at School  
OR  
Not Giving a Rat’s Ass

CLARKE

“You’re late, Griffin.” Raven mumbled as Clarke slid onto the stool beside her, struggling with the ornery strap of her safety goggles. 

“I know.” Clarke answered, her voice more sassy than apologetic. She had hit every red light on the way to class and had spent all of those extra seconds replaying the strange events of the morning over and over again in her head, trying to figure out why she had been so awkward... So weird. 

“I overslept.” She told Raven, once again thinking about her head nuzzled against Lexa, her arm and leg and fingers wrapped around her; the pure physical comfort and the utter emotional discomfort of it all. “I don’t want to talk about it. What are we doing?”

“Chemistry.” Raven answered, not bothering to look up from the flask of liquid suspended before her as she adjusted the knob on the Bunsen burner with one hand and slid a clipboard along the counter towards Clarke with the other. “I’m on step three already. Just waiting for the damn solution to boil so I can add the sulfur dichloride. Are you wearing Lexa’s shirt?”

“What?” Clarke asked, lifting her eyes from the lab procedure to glance at Raven in surprise. “You haven’t even looked at me since I came in. How could you have possibly noticed that?”

“I have excellent peripheral vision, Clarke.” Raven answered, glaring at the clear liquid in the flask as if hoping the mere intensity of her gaze might force it to bubble. “And even more proficient powers of observation. Lexa only owns about eight shirts, and that flannel that you are practically bursting out of is most assuredly one of them. So the more pertinent question isn’t how I noticed it, but rather why are you wearing Lexa’s shirt?” 

“I borrowed it.” Clarke shrugged.

“Well clearly.” Raven chuckled. “I had assumed you hadn’t STOLEN it. Did you go visit her last night? Is that why you’re late this morning?”

“I just went to check on her.” Clarke answered, surprised at the defensiveness in her voice. “And I ended up crashing there. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I never insinuated that it was.” Raven said, pulling her eyes from the dancing flame of the Bunsen burner to look at Clarke for the first time. She was wearing a look of confusion identical to the look Lexa had worn all morning. “Why? Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?” Clarke asked, feeling flustered again. 

“I mean... Did something happen?” Raven repeated, fixing Clarke with that piercing, searching gaze Raven used whenever she was studying something... Figuring something out. Clarke felt herself wriggling under it. She knew Raven had a mysterious power to read people that went beyond observation to borderline clairvoyance. Under Raven’s calculating eyes, Clarke felt like she had a clipboard pinned to her shirt outlining the truths of her like the steps of this experiment. 

“Like what?” Clarke asked, avoiding Raven’s eyes and plucking a vial of white powder from the counter top to have something to fiddle with.

“Like something you’re confused about? Something you want to talk abou- don’t play with that.” She interrupted herself, snatching the vial of powder from Clarke’s fingers. “I spent ten minutes measuring these compounds out. If you spill any of them...”

“Sorry.” Clarke said, glad for the distraction she had accidentally caused. Because yes... There was a whole fucking lot she was confused about right now. But she absolutely didn’t want to talk about any of it. She didn’t even want to think about any of it. She folded her hands in her lap, safely away from the chemicals on the counter in front of her. “And no... Nothing happened. I just went to check on her.” She repeated. “And I was too tired to drive my ass back home.”

Raven still stared at her, her narrowed eyebrows pulling at the top of her dorky safety goggles. By the look in her magnified brown eyes, she was clearly unconvinced. “Well... You’re acting weird.” She said.

“No, I’m not.” Clarke retorted.

“Yes, you are.” Raven argued.

“No... I’m not.” Clarke repeated, and suddenly she was back in the putrid yellow room with Lexa making the same exact argument, knowing that the words were a lie.

“OK...” Raven shrugged. “If you say so. So... How was she?”

“What?” Clarke asked distractedly, pulling her mind back to the classroom.

“How was Lexa?”

“Good.” Clarke answered. “I mean... Not GOOD necessarily... I mean, obviously she’s still sad.” Clarke rambled. “But I think she’s doing BETTER. I mean... She’s strong. So strong.” Clarke finished in a small voice, feeling the damn inexplicable heat rising in her cheeks again as if she was leaning a little too close to the open flame before them. 

“She’s planning on coming back to school tomorrow.” She added brightly, hoping that Raven didn’t notice the pink in her cheeks. 

“Good.” Raven remarked. “I miss her.”

“Me too.” Clarke mumbled. 

But Raven wasn’t listening. “It’s finally bubbling!” She said, her voice a mixture of excitement and exasperation. “Hand me the sodium dichloride...”

“The sodium what?” Clarke asked, eyeing the vials and flasks lined neatly on the counter in front of her. 

“The one that looks like cherry Kool-Aid.” Raven replied irritably as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Right... Cherry Kool-Aid... Got it.” Clarke replied, handing her the flask.

Cherry Kool-Aid... Clarke and Lexa had once tried to dye their hair red using cherry Kool-Aid after watching a forty-five second tutorial on YouTube. Clarke smiled at the memory. It had been a complete fail. Clarke had ended up with ugly baby-pink streaks in her blond curls and Lexa had ended up with nothing but brown hair that smelled vaguely of grenadine for three days, a scent that was not altogether unpleasant, but in no way compared to the coconut-vanilla-sugar-cookie Clarke had awoken to only so many minutes ago. 

“I miss her too.” Clarke muttered to herself as Raven cut the gas to kill the flames and slowly poured the red liquid into the clear. It hadn’t been a half hour since she had slipped from Lexa’s room and yet there was an empty longing in her tummy so fierce that Clarke couldn’t deny it any more than she could explain it. “I miss her too.”

 

***...***

“Shit.” Octavia cursed as they sidled through the classroom door and out into the busy hall, merging into the endless river of students streaming towards the cafeteria or trickling off towards Commons. “I fell asleep again. I think he was talking about the Treaty of Versillie when I drifted off. And next thing I knew he was going off about the raging twenties. Please tell me one of you was paying attention.”

“The Treaty of VERSAILLES.” Raven corrected her with a roll of her eyes. “And the ROARING twenties.”

“Whatever. I was close.” Octavia said with a huge yawn.

“Why are you so tired?” Raven asked. “Were you up all night prattling on the phone with a certain special someone again?”

“Prattling?” Octavia laughed. “I don’t know who or what you’re talking about, Raven.” She said, feigning innocent ignorance. “I just didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night. And it’s none of your business as to why. So... Are one of you going to let me borrow your notes, or what?”

“Well, seeing as Griffin, here, was completely zoned out the entire class... I guess I’ll hafta lend you mine.” Raven answered, flopping her notebook towards Octavia with another roll of her eyes.

“I wasn’t zoned out the whole time.” Clarke cut in. 

“No?” Raven laughed, raising her eyebrows at Clarke skeptically. “Tell me... In what country is Versailles?”

“Germany.” Clarke answered. “No... Wait...” She paused. That name definitely didn’t sound German. It didn’t sound English either. “Italy?”

“Errrrrnt.” Raven blared like an obnoxious timer in Pictionary or Scattegories. “The correct answer is France. I’ll give you another try. Describe some of the characteristics of a ‘flapper.’”

“A ‘flapper...’” Clarke hesitated. She had no clue what Raven was talking about. “Uhhhh... A ‘flapper’ is a... Uhhh... OK... OK. I admit it... I was zoned out the whole time.” She confessed to Raven before turning towards Octavia. “Think I can borrow that after you, O? I told Lexa I’d take notes for her.” 

“I swear...” Raven sighed, shaking her head judgmentally. “The two of you... Your distractions... Your refusal to discuss said distractions... Not only am I hurt that neither of you feel like you can confide in me, but I’m also starting to get tired of being the only one who cares enough to focus in class. I mean... You guys know college applications are coming up. I’m starting to think I’m the only one who gives a rat’s ass about-”

“Hey...” Octavia interrupted Raven’s little tirade. “There’s the boys. Does Lincoln have his damn shirt off again? I swear... That boy...”

Octavia sped up, leaving Raven and Clarke behind to watch her strutting towards Lincoln with a judgmental pucker of her lips and a sassy swing to her hips. Lincoln was indeed shirtless, gripping a basketball under one perfectly built arm while playfully shoving Finn with the other. Clarke’s stomach fell as Finn caught her eye and flashed his beautiful smile.

“I swear... That GIRL...” Raven said, echoing Octavia’s words with a shake of her head. “She’s almost in as much denial as you.”

“What?” Clarke asked, as confused by the comment as she was distracted by Finn’s incoming approach.

“Nothing.” Raven answered with a small chuckle and another shake of her head. She lowered her voice as Finn drew nearer. “I can see my presence here is about to become absurdly awkward. I’m gonna go get some food and find Luna. Catch you later.”

“No, wait. Don’t leave me, Raven.” Clarke called. But it was too late. Raven’s black ponytail had already been swallowed into the flow of passing students. She had left Clarke to drown alone. 

“Hey, Babe!” Finn called as he sidled up to her with another confident flash of his smile. “I’ve been trying to catch you all day. I swear, I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me.” He chuckled.

Clarke didn’t know how to respond. How could Finn be so oblivious? She HAD absolutely, one-hundred-percent, been avoiding him. And she wasn’t trying to be discreet about it. After asking him to leave her house, she hadn’t answered any of his calls or responded to any of his cutesy, apologetic texts. And every time she caught a glimpse of him between classes, she spun on the spot and raced away from him with the sudden speed of an Olympic race-walker, even if it meant going in the complete wrong direction. 

“I think we need to talk, Babe.” Finn said, pulling Clarke out of the hustle of the hallway and leaning casually against a locker. 

“I already told you I don’t want to talk, Finn.” Clarke sighed. “I just... I need some time.”

“It’s been like a week, Clarke.” Finn replied. “How can you still be pissed at me?”

Actually, it had been five days. And Clarke, distracted as she had been with all of the mess that Lexa was going through, had barely given ten minutes of thought to her issues with Finn. But it was clear now... She was definitely still pissed.

“Come on, Princess.” Finn cooed, sliding an arm around Clarke’s waist and pulling her into him. “I said, I’m sorry. You gotta forgive me. By the way... I’m digging your new shirt.” He added, eyeing her cleavage greedily, not even trying to be subtle.

“It’s not mine.” Clarke mumbled. “I just borrowed it from Lexa. And-”

“Well... You sure fill it out a lot better than Lexa does.” Finn interrupted with a laugh.

“No, I don’t.” Clarke continued, wriggling out of his hold and taking a step back from him.

“Yes, you sure do, Babe.” Finn grinned.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Clarke clarified. “I meant I don’t have to.”

“Have to what?” Finn asked, pulling his eyes from her chest to blink at her, confused.

“I don’t have to.” Clarke repeated. “I don’t have to FORGIVE you. I mean... Can you even tell me what it is you are sorry for?”

Finn’s confident, charming smile faltered. “I’m sorry for what I said... What I did.” He answered, chewing on his lip in a way that told Clarke he had no idea what it was he was apologizing for.

“Do you even remember what it was that you said?” Clarke asked, disgusted. “Do you even remember any of it?”

“Look, Clarke.” Finn replied, running a hand through his floppy hair. “I told you... I might have had one too many that night. The details are a little blurry, OK? But I know that I upset you... And you know that I never want to upset you, Babe.” He finished. 

Finn stepped forward and made to reach for Clarke’s waist again but Clarke pulled away before he could grab a hold of her. “You’re always having ‘one too many,’ Finn.” She said. “You have a problem.”

“Aww... Come on, Babe.” Finn replied, effectively belittling her opinion with nothing but a scoffing smirk. “I was just having some fun with the boys. Sometimes we just get a little carried away with the drinks. It’s not a big deal.” 

“It IS a big deal, Finn.” Clarke argued. “When you get drunk, it’s like you transform into a whole other person. You get jealous and mean and... And... I don’t think... I don’t think I can be with that person.” Clarke spoke, surprised at her own words and the certainty behind them.

Being with Finn had always been like a dream to her. When he was sober, he was the best boyfriend a sixteen-year-old could ever hope for. He was kind and thoughtful, funny and adorable, patient and easy to talk to. And he was athletic and hot to boot. He was any girl’s fantasy. But when he drank, which he seemed to be doing more and more often, he was nothing but a goddamn nightmare. 

And for months Clarke had tolerated his drunk alter-ego for the sake of sober Finn. But she couldn’t do it anymore. And if separating herself from nightmare Finn meant giving up dream Finn... Well... Clarke suddenly realized she was finally OK with that. 

In fact, she was surprised at just how OK she was. The idea of losing Finn had always frightened her. She had always imagined it would break her inside, until she was drowning in sorrow and loneliness. But right now she felt no fear or even sadness. All she felt was relief.

“Are you... breaking up with me, Clarke?” Finn asked, looking completely stunned and utterly confused.

“Yes...” Clarke answered, still a little surprised and confused herself. “I... I think I am. Goodbye, Finn.”

And with that, Clarke turned and walked away, weaving through the hall like a fish swimming upstream.

“Where the hell are you going?” Finn called after her.

‘Away from here.’ Clarke thought to herself as she reached the double doors leading to the school parking lot. ‘Away from here.’


	33. Two Firs at Lone Fir

Chapter 33  
Two Firs at Lone Fir  
OR  
Playing Hooky with the Dead

 

CLARKE

‘Hey... Where r u?’ Clarke messaged Lexa. She stared down at her phone, watching the drizzling rain collect in the tiniest drops on its screen. She wiped it against the saggy ass of her jeans and leaned against the side of the house, looking into the bright yellow room again despite the fact that she already knew it was empty. Maybe if she stood there long enough Lexa might just appear, conjured by Clarke’s sheer determination. Or maybe a neighbor might spot her standing in the bushes in the drizzling rain staring into someone else’s home and Clarke would receive her first ever ride in a police car. 

Clarke’s heart leapt as her phone vibrated in her palm. ‘Taking care of that thing I said I’d been putting off.’ Lexa’s word bubble said. And then another vibration... ‘Why? What’s up?’

‘I got a burrito with ur name on it.’ Clarke typed.

‘Chipotle’s???’ Lexa wrote back.

‘Duh...’ Clarke replied. ‘Only the best for u. Carne asada with extra pico AND guac. I know... fancy.’

‘U trying to make me drool? Where r u?’ Lexa asked.

‘Master Anya’s place... I mean... Ur place.’ Clarke wrote back.

‘I’m not home.’ Lexa wrote.

‘Duh...’ Clarke typed again, chuckling to herself. ‘I kinda figured that out. U coming back soon?’

‘Took me an hour to bike here...’ Lexa replied.

‘Where r u?’ Clarke asked again.

Lexa didn’t reply right away. Clarke waited, still leaning against the cold siding of the house, feeling the muddy water seeping through the mesh of her Nikes. Lexa had been so cryptic about whatever it was she needed to do today. Clarke was starting to think she wasn’t going to answer when her galaxy finally vibrated again.

‘Lone Fir... Cemetery.’ Clarke read.

The cemetery? That’s what Lexa had to do? Visit the cemetery? Clarke knew she wasn’t visiting her mother’s grave, as the body had been cremated. So that meant she was visiting her father... Or maybe Costia? Clarke knew she should probably let Lexa have her space to mourn her loved ones on her own. But it broke her heart to imagine Lexa wandering the rows of headstones and crosses and concrete angels in search of the one that was more than just a piece of concrete to her. It pained her to think of Lexa hunched over a grave, all alone in a sea of the dead. 

‘Can I join u?’ She wrote, her thumb hesitating for the slightest of moments before finally hitting the send button. She stared down at the screen, feeling her heart racing again. She was inexplicably nervous, yet again.

‘What about school?’ Lexa wrote back.

‘Fuck school.’ Clarke replied. Then, with the tiniest of smiles, followed it with. ‘Oops... I meant FORGET school. Darn autocorrect.’

‘:)’ Lexa wrote back. It always made Clarke laugh that Lexa’s flip phone didn’t have the capabilities to add emojis to messages, so she insisted on drawing happy and sad faces out the old-school way. 

‘Come.’ Lexa sent in a second message. And with a smile still on her face, Clarke sloshed her way through Anya’s muddy yard and climbed back into the Ark.

 

***...***

 

It took a great deal of wandering through rows of barren graves resting beneath rows of barren trees for Clarke to finally locate Lexa. She was sitting in the mushy wet grass, her back propped against the mossy side of a headstone, staring into the spindly branches above her and the gray sky beyond. Clarke approached quietly as if the sound of her voice or even her heavy footfalls might somehow disturb the dead. She felt a little uncomfortable sitting on someone’s grave. (Wasn’t there some rule about never stepping over someone’s final resting place? Wasn’t there some kind of curse for those who flouted the rules of graveyard etiquette?) But, emboldened by her desire to be near Lexa, Clarke stepped up and plunked down silently beside her. Lexa made no move to acknowledge Clarke’s arrival and for a moment the two of them just sat in reflective silence. 

“It’s beautiful here.” Clarke commented in a soft voice. 

It was true. They were sitting along the slope of a small hill overlooking acres of trees and grass and crumbly, lopsided headstones sprouting from the ground at odd angles like over-sized gray mushrooms. It was a dreary day, but the drizzling rain hung in the air like a gray mist, softening the edges of everything and making the occasional bits of color (a red rose lying on a headstone, a plastic green toy soldier propped against a little red, white, and blue flag, a patch of yellow dandelions sprouting at the base of an old oak) seem all that much brighter. 

“Yeah...” Lexa agreed. “It is, isn’t it? Beautiful? I haven’t been here since the day they buried my dad and I spent the whole night right here, curled up in the darkness, thinking that the sun would never rise again. But it did. And... I thought... I thought I’d never find the strength to come back here ever again.” She sighed. “But I did. I finally did.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything at all. She just scooched the littlest bit closer to Lexa, close enough to feel their shoulders touch, their elbows brush. And she hoped the comfort would radiate from her as much as the heat did. 

“It’s just...” Lexa sighed. “I can’t stop thinking... If he had been here... If he was still alive...” Lexa paused, dragging a hand over her face wearily. She turned to Clarke, her eyes as misty as the air around them.

“You know what the last thing my mother said to me was? ‘You’re always taking care of me, aren’t you, Lexa.’” She answered her own question. “And I just grumbled as if taking care of her was a burden, an inconvenience I didn’t want to deal with.” Lexa said, shaking her head and pulling her lip up in self-disgust.

“The thing is... I don’t really miss her. I’m not even really sad that she died.” Lexa confessed, frowning down at her muddy sneakers. “I think I’m more relieved than anything else.” She admitted in a small voice, pulling at the frayed end of her shoelace. She looked up at Clarke, fear and confusion and desperation in her eyes. “Do you think that makes me a horrible person?”

“Of course not.” Clarke blurted out, but Lexa just dropped her head again at the words.

“I feel like there’s something wrong with me.” She said. “I’m supposed to be sad. I’m supposed to miss her. But I don’t. I mean... It’s kind of like she died a long time ago. Like I’ve already been missing her for years, mourning her for years, and now I can finally move on.”

“Because the truth is,” She continued. “I didn’t take care of her. I never knew how. I didn’t know how to cheer her up like dad did. I didn’t know how to help her... How to make things better. If dad had been there instead of me...”

“Hey...” Clarke cut her off, snatching Lexa’s hand and enveloping it in both of her own. “None of this is your fault, Lexa. And you’re not a horrible person. Not at all. In fact, I think you might just be the best person I know.”

Lexa stared off into the distance again, pulling her lips to one side thoughtfully. She looked like she didn’t believe a word Clarke said. Clarke couldn’t understand how Lexa could possibly be blaming herself for this situation. In Clarke’s eyes it was so clear: Lexa’s mother had been mentally ill and Lexa had been doing everything she could to take care of the both of them ever since her father had died, a responsibility no eleven-year-old should ever have to carry. Instead of driving her parents crazy refusing to eat brussel sprouts or do her laundry, getting surprise piercings or Cs on her report card, or begging for the newest iPod or laptop and sneaking twenties from her mother’s purse, Lexa had been worrying about electricity and water bills, groceries and rent, and helping her mother get cleaned up and to work on time. Lexa, abruptly snatched from the world of childhood, the world of big dreams and small worries, had been forced to shoulder the burdens of an adult before she had even stepped through the doors of middle school.

And It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. And Lexa had every right to be angry with the whole world and everyone in it. But that wasn’t the person Clarke knew. Lexa never thought about what she deserved or the injustice of what she had to suffer through. She only ever thought of others. And now, here she was, blaming herself for failing the mother who had failed her. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Lexa.” Clarke repeated. “Your mom was sick. It wasn’t your fault. Trust me... if YOU couldn’t cheer your mom up, NO ONE could have.”

“My dad could have.” Lexa mumbled. “It’s just... I miss him. Now more than ever. I miss his stupid jokes and his goofy laugh and his dorky smile. I miss the way he’d pick me up and hug me like we were the only things in the whole world that mattered. I miss... I just... I miss him.”

“I know.” Clarke said. And, knowing her words could only ever fall short, she turned and wrapped her arms around Lexa. She knew she could never pick Lexa up and hold her like her father had. But she pulled her in and she hoped that Lexa felt like she was the only thing in Clarke’s whole world that mattered. Because in this moment, she was. 

Lexa let Clarke hold her for one long moment. One moment of coconuts and vanilla sugar cookies on her tongue and in her lungs. One moment of warmth enveloping her skin and permeating down into her bones and deeper still. One moment of both floating and sinking; holding and being held; knowing and being known; giving and receiving; hurting and healing. And then the moment ended too quickly, an infinity passing in the briefest of instants. And a thick silence filled the thin space between them as they broke apart. 

Clarke stared at Lexa for a moment as Lexa just blinked back at her. And she wondered at her own breathlessness left in the wake of that hug. She felt... Strange. And she wondered if Lexa had been left breathless too. She wondered if Lexa felt... Strange too. But Lexa just turned her gaze back out to the sloping hillside, and so Clarke did too.

“What happened to school?” Lexa finally asked, changing the subject to lighten the heaviness in the chilly air surrounding them. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking notes for me?” 

“Sorry... You’re going to have to ask Raven for those notes.” Clarke replied. “I... I couldn’t focus today.”

“What... Did you miss me that bad?” Lexa asked, prodding Clarke playfully with her elbow. “Or were you just jealous you couldn’t spend all day in your pajamas too?” 

“Maybe a little bit of both.” Clarke laughed. “Naw... Truth is... I just... I just didn’t want to be there anymore.” She paused, chewing on her lip, plucking a blade of grass and pulling it to shreds between her fingers like a piece of string cheese. “I... I broke up with Finn...”

Lexa turned her eyes to Clarke’s. Clarke wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she was expecting. A ‘congratulations?’ A ‘good for you?’ A perfunctory ‘I’m sorry?’ Maybe even an exasperated ‘bout time?’ But behind the mixture of surprise and disbelief on Lexa’s face was nothing but genuine concern.

“Are you OK?” Lexa asked. 

“Yeah.” Clarke answered, turning her eyes forwards again, staring at nothing and at everything. She traced the lines of the branch above them, realizing for the first time that its spindly tips had the very beginnings of buds sprouting from them. Soon these barren branches would burst into bloom, celebrating another winter overcome. “Yeah... I am.” She repeated.

Lexa was still staring at her, wearing a worried frown. “You sure? I mean... Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes.” Clarke smiled. “I mean... Yes, I’m sure. No, I don’t really want to talk about it. You already had to listen to way too much of my Finn drama over the last few months. I’m done making you sit through that shit.”

“I didn’t mind.” Lexa shrugged.

“That’s because you’re a good friend, Lexa.” Clarke answered. “Better than I deserve.”

“Naw...” Lexa answered. “I think you have no clue WHAT you deserve, Clarke.” She said, blushing slightly. “You deserve better than me. And you certainly deserve better than Finn.”

Clarke didn’t reply. She knew the words were a lie. There was no way Clarke could ever deserve a friend like Lexa. Lexa, who was always there to help her clean up the messes she made of herself. Lexa, who, instead of passing judgment, offered encouragement and support and laughter. Lexa, who taught her strength and courage, how to fight, and how to stand up for herself. Lexa, who taught her compassion and patience and forgiveness. Lexa, who taught her how to sit still and look properly and see the life and the beauty flourishing in the mundane. Lexa, who was always, always, always there. 

No... Clarke could never deserve Lexa’s friendship. But she had never HAD to deserve it. From the very beginning, Lexa had always offered it to her freely. And it was an offer Clarke could never understand. And it was an offer she promised herself she would never take for granted. 

“You know... You’re probably the only girl in our whole school who thinks I deserve better than Finn fucking Collins.” Clarke mumbled. “I think even Raven thinks he’s the ultimate catch.”

“Yeah... Well, the rest of the girls are blinded by his biceps and perfect teeth.” Lexa chuckled. “I see more clearly than that. I see him and I see you. And...” She paused, dropping her face away from Clarke to play with her laces again. Whether she was blushing or her cheeks were just pink from the cold, Clarke couldn’t say for sure.

“You deserve more than someone who’s paranoid and jealous and controlling.” She said. “You deserve someone who trusts you enough to let you make your own decisions and then supports them, whatever they are. Someone who doesn’t attack you, but rather fights FOR you. Someone who’s kind and patient and cares enough to listen... Really LISTEN to you. Someone who makes you laugh, not cry and cheers you up when you’re sad. Someone who’s just... Just... There for you, you know...”

Clarke didn’t know whether to blush or thank her, to argue with her, or just to laugh. She wondered if Lexa realized she had just perfectly described herself.

“Anyways...” Lexa sighed. “My point is you deserve better than Finn. So I’m glad you’re not all torn up about it. You’re really OK?” She asked again.

“Yeah...” Clarke smiled.

Clearly, just like Clarke, Lexa had assumed breaking up with Finn would hit her hard. But Clarke felt like someone who had just flipped their car over an embankment and then climbed out of the smashed-in sunroof with barely a scratch to show for it all. She was still a little dazed, but with the relief was a new feeling of exhilaration. She was only now realizing that somewhere deep inside of her she had been thinking about breaking up with Finn for a lot longer than the ten seconds she had spent considering her words in the busy hallway this afternoon. As surprised as she had been at how it had all gone down, part of her had been wanting this for a long time. 

“I’m fine, Lexa.” She assured her again. “In fact, I’m better than fine... I think I’ve been wanting this for a while now and just didn’t know it, you know? I mean... Is that possible? Can you want something really badly and not even know it?”

“Yeah.” Lexa answered with a half-chuckle, half-sigh, her tone suggesting she knew only too well what that was like. “You sure as hell can.”

Clarke eyed her, wondering what it was that Lexa had wanted and never known. She waited for her to elaborate, but Lexa just laughed.

“For instance.” Lexa chuckled. “I didn’t know I wanted Chipotle’s till you texted me about it. Didn’t even know I was hungry. Now my stomach feels like it’s eating itself.”

“Oh no... Peristalsis?!” Clarke exclaimed. 

Besides the fucking ATP Kreb cycle she had been forced to memorize again and again, peristalsis was about the only thing Clarke could remember learning in advanced Bio last year. For some unknown reason, Lexa seemed to think ‘peristalsis’ was the funniest word in the English language and she had cracked up during lecture the day they had been studying the digestive tract as the teacher, looking as bored as Clarke was, had scribbled it in bold across the board. Lexa (clearly loopy from sleep deprivation, or a sugar high, or taking one too many kicks to the head the night before) had laughed so hard at the word, she had choked on the apple she was secretly eating during class and Clarke had had to whack her on the back to make her breathe again. Lexa still found the word absurdly funny and now any mention of hunger and the word would instantly pop into Clarke’s head and bring a smile to her face.

“Peristalsis!” Lexa repeated her, shrieking the word as if the condition she was suffering from were fatal. “Peristalsis!”

“Well...” Clarke laughed. “The good news is I brought a cure for you.”

“You’re a savior.” Lexa chuckled.

“Bad news is I left it back in the car.” Clarke added.

“I take it back.” Lexa smirked. “You’re not a savior. You’re just a tease.”

“Hey...” Clarke objected. “I picked it up just for you... AND I didn’t eat it on the way here. You ought to be grateful.”

“I am.” Lexa answered, her smile now small and serious, fixing her impossibly green eyes on Clarke. “Grateful...”

“I was just kidding.” Clarke laughed nervously, rubbing awkwardly at her neck. “You know you don’t have to thank me.”

“Well, in that case...” Lexa teased. “Next time I want it hand-delivered on a nice, fancy paper plate with a napkin, plastic silverware, and my own personal bottle of hot sauce.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Clarke laughed. “When have you ever used silverware to eat a burrito? For that matter... When have you ever used a napkin? Don’t pretend you eat like a lady. You know we both eat like savages.”

“Maybe...” Lexa admitted. “But I like to at least have the OPTION of being civil if I so choose.”

“Yeah, well, Queen E-LEXA-BETH... You’re going to have to settle for the foil wrapper and the leftover Taco Bell hot sauce packets crammed in my glove box, like us lowly paupers.”

“Sounds perfect.” Lexa smiled. “I make a much better pauper than a queen anyways.”

“Hey...” Clarke added excitedly, a sudden idea welling inside of her. “How bout, since we’ve already ditched for the day, we go see a movie after we take care of your peristalsis crisis?”

Lexa didn’t laugh at the word or repeat it in her usual overly dramatic voice. She was biting her lip, hesitating. Lexa always hesitated when Clarke or Raven or any of the crew wanted to catch a movie. Most of the time she made up excuses to ditch them all at the last minute, blaming homework or having to help Master Anya, or even using period cramps as an excuse. And Clarke knew exactly why. Lexa didn’t have money to waste at the movies. And she hated, hated, hated letting everyone else cover her ticket. 

“Come on, Lexa.” Clarke prodded. “Don’t make me celebrate my new singleness by going to the movies all by myself. Just let me buy your ticket. Think of it as a favor to me. If you come, I won’t look so sad and pathetic.”

“I suppose, you’re right.” Lexa sighed, trying to hide her excitement at the prospect of going to the movies while still wrestling with her reluctance to accept a handout. “I can’t let my best friend look sad and pathetic. But... I’ll only go under one condition...”

“I get you your own personal bottle of hot sauce for the popcorn?” Clarke teased.

“No...” Lexa answered. “You have to pick the movie.”

“What kind of condition is that?” Clarke laughed. “You think I’m going to argue with that?”

“I’m not stupid, Clarke.” Lexa said, crossing her arms over her chest and raising her eyebrows. “I know you always pretend like you can’t decide on a movie until you somehow manage to magically figure out which one I want to see. Then you choose that one, even when it’s obvious you don’t actually want to see it. If you’re paying, then you have to promise you’ll pick the movie YOU want to see.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lexa.” Clarke lied. “You know I always choose the movie I want to see. You know I’m selfish like that. If it happens to be the movie you want to see too, that’s purely coincidental.”

Lexa only raised her eyebrows higher, clearly unconvinced. “Promise, Clarke.” She demanded.

“Okay, okay...” Clarke laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, Woods. I promise to be selfish and choose the movie I want to see.” 

Clarke was lying again. But Lexa seemed satisfied, if still not wholly convinced.

“So...” Clarke began awkwardly. “Do you want to get going? Or do you want to stay here longer? I don’t mind hanging longer. It’s nice here... Peaceful.”

“No, it’s OK.” Lexa answered. “I’m ready. I just have one more thing to do.”

She pushed herself up off of the soggy ground, wiped her hands on her jeans, and pulled her backpack from its resting place against her father’s tombstone. Then, as Clarke followed her to her feet, Lexa dug through the bag and pulled something from its recesses, setting it down on the top ledge of the stone, her back blocking the item from Clarke’s view. 

“Let me just go grab my bike.” She said, pointing to where her bike was propped against the trunk of a tree a few rows away. “Then we can go.”

Clarke nodded, and it wasn’t until Lexa turned to fetch her bike, that Clarke allowed her eyes to wander to the tombstone. She knew that whatever it was Lexa had left was between her and her father, but her curiosity was too great to ignore it. It wasn’t a bouquet of flowers or a single perfect rose. It was actually three things: A Baby Ruth candy bar, Lexa’s gold medal from States (Lexa had many more gold medals by now, but Clarke knew this one had been her first) and, tucked beneath them both, a ziploc baggy encasing the photo of Lexa’s laughing father dangling his grinning daughter upside down by the ankles. 

Clarke glanced at Lexa. She was busy unlocking the chain she had wrapped around the tree trunk, her back turned to Clarke. Maybe Clarke would burn in hell for this. Even worse, maybe Lexa would find out what she had done and hate her forever for it. But, consequences be damned... Clarke could not stop herself. And before she could think better of it, she reached out and slid the photo from the mossy surface of the tombstone. And with a flick of her fingers, she tucked it safely into her back pocket, whispering her apology to the wind as if the dead might be listening.

***...***

Clarke flopped onto her bed and pulled her phone from her pocket, already dreading looking at it. She had turned it off the moment she and Lexa had entered the theater, and had purposefully been avoiding turning it back on since the moment they had re-emerged into a dusky gray evening. 

Clarke had deduced within seconds (by the glint in Lexa’s green eyes and the curl at the corner of her lips at the sight of its poster) which movie Lexa was dying to see, and she hadn’t hesitated a moment in buying their tickets. Of course out of all of the romantic comedies and cheap action flicks, B-rated horror movies and potentially award-winning dramas, Lexa’s eyes had lit up at the only documentary playing, some film about the dangers of ignoring climate change and the crisis of global warming. It was probably the last thing Clarke would have chosen, except for maybe the new Minions movie playing in 3-D which looked to Clarke like nothing but an expensive, eleven-dollar headache. Yet Clarke had made a point to exaggerate her feigned excitement at seeing the climate change movie, even going as far as to apologize to Lexa for dragging her to a documentary and blaming her for letting Clarke choose.

They had been the only ones in the theater except for an old man who fell asleep twenty minutes into it and snored the rest of the way through. But Lexa, like the true nerd that she was, had sat straight in her seat the whole time, her eyes glued to the screen, enraptured. And Clarke, munching on popcorn and Raisinettes, found herself spending more time watching Lexa watch the movie than watching the actual screen. The look on Lexa’s face was worth a hundred times what Clarke had shelled out for the tickets and snacks. And, though by the end of the film Clarke was certainly convinced the entire world was destined for a terrible doom, no amount of melting icecaps or dying species or rising seas and temperatures could wipe the smile from Clarke’s face.

But Clarke wasn’t smiling now as she pressed the power button on her Galaxy to find four missed calls, two new voicemails, and seven text messages, all from Finn. It was just as she had feared... Finn wasn’t ready to give her up without a fight. 

Clarke ignored the voicemails, not wanting to hear his voice. But with a sigh, she scrolled through the texts.

7:16 pm: Babe... Plz answer the phone. We need to talk about this. Plz.

7:23 pm: Come on, Princess. Answer the phone. Just talk to me. We can work this out. 

7:31 pm: I just left you a message, Clarke. Listen to it. Call me back. Plz.

8:53 pm: OK... I get it. Ur punishing me. I’m sorry, Baby. Really sorry. I love u. U love me. We belong together. U know that. So just tell me... how can I make it up to U? How can I fix this? Plz let me fix this.

9:34 pm: Fine. Blame all ths shit one me. We both no why u wanna brake really up. U think i’m stupd? I no u r fucking belamy bhind my back. Fuking slut. If u wanna go... GO. I dont need a ho girlfrend anyway.

9:37 pm: Slut ho skank. I don’t ned u. I can have any fuking girl i fuching chose. I have a hole line fo girls waiting to take there off pants for me. And, not like u, none of them is scarred to suk my dick. I dont fuckng need u.

9:38 pm: Hey, Clarke. This is Bellamy. Finn’s had one too many tonight. He’s not himself right now. I’m taking his phone away from him. You should probably ignore whatever he sent you. I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it. He’s real torn up right now. Don’t worry... I’ll get him home. Sorry to bother you so late. 

Clarke tossed the phone aside and laid back, running her palms over her face and through her hair with mixed frustration and weary indifference. She wasn’t at all surprised by the texts, the written record of Finn’s transformation from Dream Finn to Nightmare Finn in two hours flat. But that didn’t make them any easier to deal with. 

‘One too many.’ Bellamy had defended his friend’s behavior by offering Clarke the same lame excuse Finn had. And Clarke was tired... So tired of the excuses. And she was tired... So fucking tired of people (herself included) defending Finn. ‘He’s not himself right now.’ Bellamy had argued. It was the same thing Clarke had been telling herself for months every time Finn got drunk and lost control. But Clarke refused to believe the words any longer. Sober Finn... Drunk Finn... At this point, who was to say which Finn was the real Finn? Clarke couldn’t fool herself any longer. Alcohol didn’t magically instill darkness in people. The ugly, mean parts of Finn that surfaced any time he had ‘one too many’ didn’t come out of the drinks. The alcohol simply unleashed the darkness in Finn that was always there, lingering just below the surface, waiting to rise. 

And Clarke didn’t want to be a part of it anymore. And yet, somehow she sensed that separating herself from Finn might not be as easy as she had hoped. Finn was nothing if he wasn’t persistent. And Clarke had a feeling that this was only the beginning of the end. 

Clarke tried her best to push the thoughts of Finn from her mind. She would deal with him when she had to. But not tonight. She was too dead ass tired to deal with it now. She pushed herself up from the bed with a grunt, pulled a loose shirt from her dresser to change into, and finally wriggled out of her pants, leaving them crumpled in a pile on the floor. Then, spotting a bit of plastic peeking from a pocket, she bent and pulled the little photo from the heap.

Free of her clothes, Clarke climbed into her bed, pulled the covers up to her chest, and carefully slipped the photo from it’s Ziploc baggie. And, with no one watching her, Clarke studied the picture with the intensity it deserved. It was just a simple, every-day moment captured in film, and yet Clarke wanted to memorize every detail of this moment she had missed. She wanted to memorize the curve of Lexa’s grin, the light in her crinkled laughing eyes. She wanted to memorize the look of adoration on her father’s face. She didn’t even know the man’s name. She had never asked Lexa and she hadn’t even bothered to read it off of his tombstone. But staring into his eyes, Clarke felt like she knew him in a way that she could never properly explain. Because she knew she had one very real thing in common with this man... Both he and Clarke would do anything... Anything... To see that grin on Lexa’s face. 

Clarke finally tucked the photo into her pillow case and flicked the light off. And she laid back into her pillows and pulled the covers up to her chin. And she stared at the stars above her, still shining faithfully despite their loss in numbers. And she wondered if, at this very moment, Lexa might be staring at the stars above her too. And her last thought as she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes was not of Finn, but rather of Lexa and her grin and the shine in her green, green eyes, as Clarke let the darkness invade the empty space around her with nothing but her blankets to hold on to through the night.


	34. Clueless

Chapter 34  
Clueless  
OR  
The Untimely Demise of Sebastian the Bass

LEXA

 

“O.M.G., Lexa!” Octavia hollers from behind me as I step just a bit too fiercely on the brake and we come to a jolting halt five feet short of the stop sign. “Are you TRYING to give us all whiplash, or what?”

“You know, if she ever gets her own vehicle, I’m going to purchase one of those ‘Warning: I brake for squirrels, unicorns, and magical creatures only I can see.’ bumper stickers.” Raven mumbles from beside her.

I risk a glance into the rear view mirror to see Octavia rubbing at her neck and Raven clutching the little plastic handle hanging from the van’s ceiling like a passenger standing on a rocking bus. In the seat bench behind them Luna is grinning, her seat belt unfastened, her butt on the edge of the bench so she can lean her head between O and Rae. 

“I don’t know what you two are complaining about.” Luna laughs. “This is better than the bumper cars at Oaks Park and there’s no line or nine dollar entrance fee. All we’re missing is the cotton candy. Pedal to the medal, Lexa!”

“Hey!” Clarke says from beside me, swiveling in her seat to peek her head through the space between us as I lift my foot from the brake a little too quickly and we lurch forward only for me to stomp on the brakes again, now at a reasonable distance from the stop sign. Clarke grabs hold of her armrest to keep from slamming her chest into the back of her seat.

“Enough of the backseat driving, guys.” She scolds them, her words barely discernible over Luna’s laughing ‘woop!’ coming from the back of the van. Your snarky comments aren’t helping.” She turns back in her seat and lowers her voice. “Don’t forget your blinker, Lexa.” 

“Right...” I answer, nervously. “The blinker.” 

I fumble with the levers and knobs surrounding my steering wheel. I give one lever a small pull and instead of the tick-tick-tick of the blinker I hear the obnoxious squawk of the windshield wipers dragging across dry glass. 

“Crap!” I squeak, jerking the lever again to still the windshield wipers, but they only increase their speed as if taunting me. 

“It’s this one.” Clarke chuckles, silencing the windshield wipers before reaching across my lap to flick the correct lever and my heart races against the rapid rhythm of the turn signal. 

“I’m just saying,” Raven argues from behind us. “Perhaps you could ease up on the brakes a bit, Lexa. You know, either decrease the initial velocity of our vehicle or the rate of it’s deceleration, or better yet... Both.”

“Hey, Raven.” Octavia interjects. “No physics talk. My brain already hurts from Lexa’s jerky driving ramming it repeatedly against my skull. Plus It’s Friday, F.F.S.”

“Fine... I won’t discuss Physics if YOU will desist speaking in acronyms like a walking text message.” Raven bargains.

“L.O.L Raven.” Luna teases. “T.B.H., Octavia being a walking text message isn’t half as annoying as your being a walking text BOOK, I.M.O.”

“Well, Luna...” Raven shoots back. “Your facetiousness isn’t half as witty or amusing as you think it is, in MY opinion.”

“Ummm... Lexa?” Octavia speaks over the quibbling girls. “Are you going to turn, or what?”

“I’m waiting for it to be clear, O.” I reply, blushing. I’ve already had about three clear opportunities to turn, but I hesitated, the fear coursing through me making me sweat more profusely than I did at training tonight. “There’s a car coming.”

“It’s like two football fields away, Lexa.” Octavia laughs. “And it’s going like ten miles an hour. I could literally get out of the car, drop in the middle of the street and do twenty push-ups and still have time to crab-walk my ass to the safety of the sidewalk before that car reaches us.”

“Hey.” Clarke says, glaring at O through the rear view. “What did I just say about backseat drivers, huh? You’re doing fine, Lexa.” She adds as Octavia rolls her eyes. “Take your time. Pull out when you’re comfortable. There’s no one waiting behind us.”

As if the universe is listening in on us, headlights suddenly glow in the rear view and a big-ass Ford truck pulls up behind us.

“Aww... Crap.” I mumble, feeling the sweat pores in my underarms kick it up a whole other notch.

“You’re fine, Lexa.” Clarke repeats. “Just relax.” She says, laying her palm on my leg in that area that is neither knee nor thigh but somewhere in-between. And I know the gesture is meant to calm and reassure me, but it only makes my pulse beat even more wildly within me. My own palms are sweating against the steering wheel. 

“As soon as this car passes, you can go.” Clarke instructs. “Just pull her out, nice and easy.” 

I watch the car crawl past us and move my foot from the brakes to the accelerator with every intention of pulling out ‘nice and easy.’ But in my nervousness, I’ve pushed too hard again and the van jolts forward with surprising speed for its size. And everyone lurches to the right as I jerk the steering wheel left. 

“Bumper cars AND a roller coaster!” Luna laughs from the backseat as Octavia and Raven exchange expletives under their breaths. 

“I said, ‘nice and easy,’ Lexa.” Clarke laughs beside me, putting her hands on the dashboard for stability.

“Sorry.” I moan, easing off the pedal to slow to a cruising speed of twenty-five. We’ve finally entered the residential area. We’re nearly to Clarke’s, thank God. “I’m horrible at this. I should never have let you talk me into driving tonight.”

I’m still not sure how she managed to convince me to slide behind the wheel of the Ark tonight. I presented multiple sound arguments against it, including the fact that legally, I’m required to have an adult present when driving with only a permit, to which Clarke had replied, ‘It’s a ten minute drive, Lexa. Really... How many cops do you think are gonna be lurking in the neighborhoods between the gym and my house where the biggest crime committed in the last four years was when that group of eighth grade boys left a bag of flaming dog-shit on the Rottenberg’s doorstep? Plus, there’s four licensed drivers in here, which, if you add us all up, is practically like driving with a ...” She paused to do some math. “Sixty-four-year-old woman.”

“Yeah... With a total of like five years driving experience.” I had argued back. 

“And perfect driving records.” Clarke had replied.

“Actually...” Octavia had interrupted, shoving her gear into the back of the van. “I hit a pole in the parking lot the other day...”

“Luna got pulled over for exiting a roundabout incorrectly a couple weeks ago.” Raven had added.

“Hey... I got let off with just a warning on that one.” Luna had supplied in her defense. “The powers of flirtation...”

“More like the powers of tears.” Raven had teased. “Poor cop couldn’t stomach giving a blubbering sixteen-year-old her first ticket...”

“Okay...” Clarke had admitted. “A semi-perfect driving record...” 

And before I could argue further, she had flashed me a crooked grin, tossed her keys at me and was already climbing into the passenger seat. And I was powerless to deny her. Something tells me Clarke could convince me to step into a paintball arena unarmed and blindfolded or to shave my head and tattoo my scalp or to go snow-tubing in nothing but undies and knee-high socks, all using only the magical power of persuasion held in that crooked grin. 

“You’re not HORRIBLE, Lexa.” Clarke laughs.

I raise my eyebrows skeptically at her. My eyes have only left the road for a millisecond, and yet, when I turn them back, I see I’m drifting to the right and jerk the wheel back left, just barely missing the curb.

“OK... You’re horrible.” Clarke admits with a chuckle. “But you’re SUPPOSED to be horrible... You’re only a beginner. I mean, you’ve had your permit for months now, and this is what... Your SECOND time behind the wheel.” 

“Third.” I correct her. “You forced me to practice once in the Intel parking lot and once in that church parking lot where I nearly hit that statue of the Virgin Mary, remember? I could have been eternally damned for that. And what’s the point? I don’t even have a car anyways.”

“You’re not going to be riding the Toddler Tromper forever, Lexa.” Clarke argues. “You might as well learn to drive now. Now, pull in nice and easy.” She says again as I finally reach the edge of her driveway, a welcome sight to us all. 

“Easy!” Clarke repeats. “Watch the mailbox!”

I turn the big-ass van into the driveway, missing the edge of her mailbox (one of those ugly-ass open-mouthed bass boxes that fishermen love) by mere inches, and stomp on the brakes again, feet from her garage door. 

“Alright... We made it.” Clarke sighs in relief. “OK... Just slide it into park before you pull the keys out.

“Let me out!” Octavia blurts over-dramatically, pretending to climb over Raven to reach the sliding door. 

“What a ride!” Luna laughs, pushing past the two of them to pull the door open.

I put it into park just as Clarke instructed, feeling as physically drained as if I just stepped out of the ring. And I sigh in relief as I unbuckle and push my own door open, as eager to get out of the Ark as the others. And I finally pull my foot off the brake as I shove my way through the door.

“Shit!” Luna hollers from behind, one leg in the van, one leg out, just like me. “We’re rolling!”

She’s right. She’s absolutely right. And my heart is pounding again as I wrench myself back into the seat and scramble to find the brake again, even as Clarke flings herself across me to pull at another lever. I slam us to a halt, but not before I hear a gut-wrenching thud from behind the van.

Clarke is laying across my knees, her breathing as panicked as my own. She digs a sharp elbow into my thigh to push herself up off of me and flashes me an ‘Oh shit... We’re in trouble’ look if I ever saw one.

“Uhhh... I guess I forgot to tell you to lock the emergency brake.” She confesses, cringing guiltily. “The Ark tends to roll... My bad.”

I follow her outside of the car to where Luna, Raven, and Octavia are already gathered in silence like mourners at a funeral. We sidle up beside them to get our first look at the damage. Clarke’s mailbox is lying at an angle, the splintered wood of its post just barely still attached, the bass lying dejectedly on the muddy grass. 

“Poor Sebastian... This is about as sad a demise as Nearly Headless Nick’s.” Clarke comments, chuckling despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Sebastian?” Octavia asks. “You named your mailbox Sebastian?”

“Yeah.” Clarke answers as if it is completely natural to go around naming inanimate objects. “Sebastian the Bass.”

I look down at Sebastian lying lifeless in the mud. I feel sick with guilt. I wonder how much it costs to replace a mailbox. I wonder if Master Anya will spot me a paycheck early. 

As if she can read my thoughts, Clarke throws an arm over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lexa. This was totally MY fault.”

“I bet if you got some Gorilla Glue you could fix this right up.” Luna says, optimistically. “Your mom would probably never even notice it, Clarke.” She picks up Sebastian by his tail and holds him in place to prove her point. But the paint is chipped where the wood has split, a jagged line of brown running through the ocean blue like a scar. “Uhhh.... Maybe you should plant like a bush or something in front of it after you glue it.”

“Gorilla Glue and a bush?” Raven laughs. “Might as well duct tape it and erect a flock of plastic flamingos around it like proper trailer trash.” 

“As helpful as both of those suggestions are...” Clarke laughs. “I think I’ll just leave it the way it is. My mom’s been talking about replacing this ugly-ass bass mailbox since the day we moved in. Now she has no excuse to put it off another four years. Though I think she’ll secretly miss asking me if I checked Sebastian’s guts and gills for bills everyday.”

“Ugly-ass bass?” Octavia snorts. “I always thought he was kinda cute.”

“Should we say a few words in his honor?” Raven suggests in a small voice that barely conceals the laughter lingering in her chest. “Dear, Sebastian... Faithful servant to the Griffin family... We gather here today to lament your passing, your tragic and untimely end. Your years of tirelessly swallowing and regurgitating bills and junk mail have come to an abrupt close. And we thank you for your sacrifice. For it was only a matter of time before Lexa’s dreadful driving brought a life to its end, and we shall remember your death with every grateful breath we take until the end of our days, knowing it could have just as easily been one of us who paid the ultimate price for her inabilities to safely operate moving vehicles...”

“Oh, would you shut up?” I laugh through my blushing, punching Raven in the arm. 

“Well, Lexa...” Clarke teases. “You have to admit you do have a bit of a record already. First the little boy in the park... Now poor Sebastian.”

“Hey...” I protest. “You’re the one who convinced me to drive tonight... You’re the one...”

“Hey... It doesn’t matter who killed him. Sebastian’s dead.” Octavia interrupts. “Now can we go inside, or what? I’m starving.”

“Well, Sorry, O...” Clarke answers, leading us all away from the grisly scene of Sebastian’s death and snagging her gear bag from the van. “But you’re going to be hungry for a while. We’re not eating till Luna here takes a shower. I’m not letting the smell of cat piss ruin my pizza.”

“Hey...” Luna protests. “It’s not MY fault Octavia’s cat pissed all over my gear.”

“Actually... Yes it is.” Octavia argues, grabbing her own gear from the van and sliding the door shut behind everyone. “I warned you not to leave your bag in my garage.”

“We were only studying for like an hour.” Luna argues. “I didn’t think he would even find my bag that quickly. Why the hell would he piss all over my crap anyway?”

“Probably because your gear was already so rank to begin with.” Clarke chimes in.

“Helios pisses on anything and everything he damn well pleases.” Octavia says. “I told you that.”

“Then why didn’t he piss all over YOUR gear?” Luna argues.

“Because he loves me. He never pisses on MY shit.” Octavia laughs. “Bellamy’s shit on the other hand...”

“The point is, Luna.” Raven cuts in. “Clarke’s right... Even with your gear off, you still reek. Why do you think we banned you to the back of the Ark?” 

“The smell is so bad I thought I was going to pass out sparring with you tonight.” Clarke laughs as she unlocks the front door and we all drop our crap in the entry way. “I couldn’t breathe every time you brought your leg up.”

“Oh... Is THAT why you looked so woozy tonight?” Luna smirks. “Because you couldn’t breathe? I could have sworn it was because I clocked you in the head so many times. I was kicking your ass left and right tonight, Griffin.”

“Hey...” I protest. I know Luna is only teasing, but I feel myself bristling on Clarke’s behalf. “You didn’t kick her ass. She was holding her own. And you’ve been a black-belt for years. She’s still a red-belt. AND she’s on her period, too.”

“Thanks for announcing that to everyone, Lexa.” Clarke laughs, shaking her head at me.

“Excuses... Excuses.” Luna says. “Doesn’t change anything. I still kicked her ass.”

“Sometimes you’re so damned cocky, Luna.” I answer. “I swear... You can take the fighter out of North Wind, but you can’t take the North Wind out of the fighter.”

I was only teasing her. But by the sudden look of hurt on her face, I know I took it too far. Out of all of us, no one detests the Headhunters more than Luna does. And I regret my words immediately.

“I’m sorry, Luna.” I mumble. “I was just kidding. I didn’t mean that. You’re nothing like the jackasses at North Wind.”

Luna stares at me with dangerously narrowed eyes. But her lips pull into a slanted smile, the kind of smile you flash a worthy opponent you cannot help but respect. “Naw... I might’ve had that coming.” She says. “You know... It’s good to have you back to your ‘I don’t take no shit from nobody’ self, Lexa.”

“I concur.” Raven chimes in while Clarke and Octavia laugh.

“It’s good to be back.” I say. And it’s true. As much as I wanted to be alone over the last few days, there is nothing like being surrounded by these jokers I am so lucky to call friends. In the eyes of the state I might be an orphan now. But Master Anya was right... I’m not alone. I am surrounded by family.

“I’d give you a hug.” Luna says. “But apparently I smell. So... To shut the rest of you buttheads up, I’m gonna go shower. Don’t eat without me! I mean it.”

 

“So... What do you guys think? Should we wait for her?” Clarke asks with a wicked smile once Luna is out of earshot. She plunks the pizzas onto the kitchen counter. 

“Yeah, I think we should.” I answer. “She is a Fir, after all.”

“I’m so hungry.” Octavia pouts, throwing herself onto the sofa and draping an arm over her eyes dramatically. 

“Poor girl,” Clarke laughs. “I think she’s suffering from peristalsis.”

“Peristalsis!” I exclaim, grinning and holding Clarke’s eyes as Raven just shakes her head at the two of us. 

 

***...***

“Hey, put the damn phone away, O.” Raven scolds Octavia. “We’re about to start the movie. Besides... You know there are no boys allowed on girl’s night. That’s a blanket rule. It extends to calling and/or texting with boys too.”

“What makes you think I was texting a boy?” Octavia asks, slipping her phone beneath her thigh and out of anyone’s sight. 

“Oh, please.” Raven answers with a roll of her eyes. “Whenever you’re messaging or even thinking about Lincoln, you get this little smile on your face and this tiny crease right here in your cheek.”

“Hey.” Octavia replies, slapping Raven’s hand away from her face. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Lincoln and I are just friends. You know he drives me crazy.”

“Crazy with desire.” Luna teases from Octavia’s opposite side so that she’s surrounded by accusers. The three of them are crammed on one sofa, leaving Clarke and I on the love seat with the saggy springs that pulls us close enough to make my skin burn where our sides meet and my heart race inside of me. Clarke just got out of the shower, (of course she insisted on showering last, knowing that the water heater might give out at any moment, because she is as selfless as she is beautiful) and she smells like lavender soap and rose shampoo and spearmint toothpaste, and I am almost dizzy with my own... As Luna put it... ‘desire.’ I try to sit as straight as I can against her, hoping no one notices, grateful that Octavia is the one being grilled right now.

“Hey... Cut the girl some slack.” Clarke cuts in. “We don’t know that that was Lincoln. Maybe she was texting with her mom.” Though she speaks in Octavia’s defense, Clarke’s voice tells me she is just as certain it was Lincoln as all of us are.

“With that disgusting dreamy look on her face?” Raven scoffs. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, okay... It was Lincoln.” Octavia actually admits as Raven dramatically presses a palm to her chest and breathes in as if shocked. “But HE texted ME, okay? It’s not my fault the boy is obsessed with me. Plus... If you’re going to talk about dreamy looks, Raven... How about we talk about the look in YOUR eyes every time Kyle comes within fifteen feet of you, huh?”

“Kyle?” Raven asks, genuinely confused.

“Yeah... Kyle Wick... Your robotics teammate...”

“Oh, Wick!” Raven says, the look of understanding on her face quickly transforming to one of repulsion. But I know her well enough to know the repulsion is feigned. “You think I like Wick?” She laughs, but it does nothing to hide the blush in her cheeks. “No way... First of all, he’s a FRESHMAN. Secondly, he’s a brash, cocky ass who thinks his brain is even bigger than his overgrown ego.”

“I don’t know this guy, but he sounds a lot like you.” Luna laughs as Raven shoots her a glare.

“Raven’s just pissed because he tried to dethrone her as captain of their robotics team. And because he would probably beat her at science trivia.” Octavia says, clearly pleased to have someone else burning beneath the limelight. “And because as much as she hates him, he’s damn cute... You know, in that ‘I designed and built this apparatus just for you from scrap metal because I’m not good with verbal communication or general social interaction but I want to hold your hand,’ kind of way.” She snickers. 

“Wick would NEVER beat me at science trivia.” Raven says, offended. But she doesn’t deny the rest of it. “How do you even know about Wick, huh? How did you know he thinks he should be captain?”

“I sit next to Monty in English.” Octavia shrugs. “Sometimes we talk.”

“And Monty told you he’s cute?” I laugh.

“No.” Octavia answers with her own laugh. “MILLER told me he’s cute. And Brian confirmed it. They pointed him out in the hall for me. Monty says you and Kyle are going to take the robotics team all the way to the championships this year, that is... And I quote... If the explosive sexual tension doesn’t reduce the club to flaming ruins first.”

“God... What a bunch of gossips.” Raven says. 

“Funny...” Luna says. “I always thought you had a thing for Bellamy, Rae.”

“Bellamy?” Raven, Octavia, Clarke, and I all blurt out simultaneously. Honestly, I’ve always suspected Raven had a thing for Finn, but never Bellamy.

“I take it I’m the only one who sensed something with Bellamy?” Luna asks, surprised at our surprise.

“Bellamy?” Raven repeats. “Bellamy’s in love with Clarke.”

“What?” This time Luna and Clarke blurt the word simultaneously. I can’t help but notice that Octavia doesn’t seem surprised at Raven’s statement. And I’m a little surprised that Raven’s words don’t surprise me either. 

Once upon a time I knew Bellamy in that, ‘I’m best friends with your sister so I know all about how annoying you are and how much you fart and about that time you got a carrot stuck up your nose’ kind of way. Because I spent so much time with Octavia, I considered him a friend by default. I mean... His mother has a picture of Octavia, Bellamy, Costia and I, all swimming in a kiddie pool in nothing but snorkeling masks and our underwear. But as we’ve gotten older, we’ve grown apart. Especially considering Bellamy decided to quit Tae Kwon Do after we all got our black-belts in seventh grade so that he could pursue basketball and football and hockey instead (lame, if you ask me). And by the time we all entered high-school and Bellamy didn’t follow us girls into the AP classes, I barely considered him a friend anymore. In fact, more and more I started to dislike him, for reasons I could never really identify. But now, looking back... maybe part of me always knew Bellamy had feelings for Clarke. Maybe part of me (the same part of me that wants to drive an elbow into Finn’s perfectly straight nose) has always hated him for that.

“Bellamy isn’t in love with me.” Clarke says, looking completely taken aback at the idea. “Hello... he’s with Gina.”

“Not anymore.” Octavia corrects her. “They broke up a couple of days ago.”

“Just shortly after you broke up with Finn.” Raven comments, her tone like that of a detective on CSI pointing out mysterious coincidences for the sake of those members of the audience too stupid to follow the story line on their own.

“But they were together for...” Clarke begins.

“Just about as long as you and Finn were together.” Raven finishes for her. “It’s almost as if one might argue that he started dating Gina as a second choice when he realized you were taken. And now, reasoning that you may be available again, he has freed himself up just in case the opportunity arises for him to swoop in and rescue you from eternal singleness.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Clarke says. “Bellamy’s never once said anything about liking me.”

“Well, Octavia isn’t the only Blake who struggles with confronting difficult emotions and developing healthy, open relationships with others.” 

“Hey...” Octavia protests. “We’ve moved on from me... Remember?”

“What do you think, Octavia?” Raven asks. “You live with him... Does he seem distraught in the aftermath of his break-up with Gina?”

“No, not really.” Octavia shrugs. “I mean... When the Ducks lost the championships to Ohio State last year he spent three days moping around, sitting in nothing but his boxers, eating Lucky Charms and refusing to speak to anyone other than Bullets, his stupid Komodo dragon. But he hasn’t been moping lately. Come to think of it... He’s been unusually cheerful. He offered to cook dinner last night... Honestly, who knew you could fuck up Kraft’s mac and cheese? And he didn’t whine about having to drop me off at practice tonight. And I swear I caught him humming a Justin Beiber song in the shower this morning.”

“Oh god... Justin Beiber? He’s got it bad.” Raven laughs. “I’m telling you, Clarke... The boy is pining for you. Watch out.”

“Bellamy is so NOT pining for me.” Clarke says with a roll of her eyes and a chuckle of dismissal. “And even if he was... I just broke up with Finn... I’m not ready to be with anyone yet.”

I wonder if anyone notices me stiffen at her words. My stomach drops inside of me and before I can stop them, the words spill out of my mouth like blood from a wound. “So... You’re saying if you WERE ready, you might actually consider him? Bellamy?”

Clarke looks confused, flustered. She’s blushing and frowning and shifting in her seat. “I’m saying that it’s a moot point.” She finally says. “Because I’m NOT ready.”

“Right.” I say, my stomach turning, my brain screaming at my tongue to shut up. But my tongue is openly defiant. “Not ready... For ANYONE.”

“Right...” Clarke repeats, still looking flustered and confused. Her blue eyes are locked on mine, her eyebrows furrowed, her lips puckered to one side. “For anyone.”

A moment of tense silence passes between us and, not for the first time, I wonder if she already KNOWS; knows that I love her; knows that I want her; knows that just sitting beside her makes me as dizzy and giddy as standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that at any second I might just lose my footing and plummet into the abyss. And, not for the first time, I have the overwhelming desire to tell her so. And, not for the first time, I feel the courage draining from me like sweat, the fear locking my tongue to the top of my mouth like I just licked a tube of Luna’s Gorilla Glue.

“Well, this got strangely awkward.” Raven comments and Clarke and I nearly jump at the words. I wonder if, just like me, Clarke forgot there were others in the room with us. “Why are we talking about boys anyways?” Raven asks. “This is supposed to be GIRL’S night. Someone put the movie in already.”

“I’ll get it!” I volunteer, leaping off of the love seat with the urgency of a free diver coming up for air. Another moment beside Clarke and I might have drowned. I load ‘Clueless’ into the DVD player and take my sweet time navigating through the menu to start it. And by the time Octavia says “Is this a Noxzema commercial, or what?” in perfect timing with Alicia Silverstone, everyone (Clarke included) seems perfectly relaxed again. 

“God... This movie is stupid.” Raven comments as I rise to my feet again. “I feel like I kill about twenty brain cells every time I watch it. But I can’t stop. It’s like a narcotic to me.” 

I turn from the T.V. and consider my options. Should I sit on the floor? Or would someone call me out for that, questioning my motives for sitting on the ground when there’s a perfectly good seat available beside Clarke? I’m probably being ridiculous. Probably no one would even notice my choice to sit on the floor. But, though I know it’s irrational, now I’m wondering if they notice my indecisiveness.

“Are you gonna sit down, or what, Lexa?” Octavia complains, and I feel myself blushing immediately. “You’re blocking the T.V.”

“Sorry.” I mumble and I quickly sink back into the cushion beside Clarke, trying to act natural though every cell in my body is standing at attention. Clarke leans away from me, propping her head against the sofa’s armrest and pulling her feet up onto the cushions so that they press against the side of my leg. And I don’t know where to put my arm now. And I wonder if she notices my hand hovering awkwardly above her shins in search of a safe, neutral place to rest. I finally wedge it into the space between my knees, feeling like a person squashed next to a fat guy on an airplane.

The minutes go by. Alicia Silverstone and Brittany Murphy fumble through the ups and downs of navigating life as privileged, rich and beautiful teenagers. The others laugh and heckle and quote their favorite lines. But I am barely watching. Because soon Clarke’s feet have found their way into my lap and, though my hand is growing numb with disuse, it is all I can do to keep myself from running my fingers up and down her strong legs. And every time a good old nineties song starts blasting in the background, Clarke’s toes tap against my thigh to the beat of the music. And part of me never wants her to pull her feet from my lap. And the other part of me can’t handle another second of this cruel and unusual torment. 

And just when I feel like I’m about to explode with the tension building inside of me, Clarke groans softly and pushes herself up, shifting so that her feet now drape over the armrest and her back is propped against my shoulder. And now her hair is tickling my cheek. And I am breathing in lavender and rose again. And I can feel the vibrations of her laughter rolling through me. And I wish her feet were back in my lap because this is so much worse. 

Octavia passes out first, her head smashed at a weird angle against Luna’s armpit and one leg slung over Raven, the other dangling from the sofa onto the ground. With a chuckle and a grunt, Luna pushes Octavia off of her and gently flops the rest of her onto the floor. Octavia barely so much as twitches as she hits the carpet.

“She is OUT.” Luna comments with a yawn, wedging a pillow under Octavia’s head before plopping down beside her with her own pillow, allowing Raven to stretch out on the couch. And it’s only a few more minutes before Luna’s barking laughter gives way to soft snoring too. Raven is staring with glazed eyes at the screen. But I am not tired. Not tired at all.

Eventually Clarke turns her head from the screen and nestles it against my shoulders, and I watch, completely entranced as her eyelids droop and flick open and droop again. A few more beautiful flutters of her lashes and her body goes slack against mine, her head lolling from my shoulder down the slope of my chest. And not knowing what else to do, I catch it in my palms and guide her to my lap, where she nuzzles against me like a pillow. 

And I can barely breathe as I watch the slow, gentle rise and fall of her chest; the twitching of her plump lips and the darting of her eyes beneath their lids. A lock of her hair lies across her cheek, fluttering slightly in the tiny breeze of her breath. And I cannot stop myself. I cannot hold back any longer. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

So I reach out with my tingling fingers and brush the strands from her face. And before I know it, I am running my fingers through her soft golden waves. At my touch, Clarke makes the most beautiful sound between the happiest of sighs and the tiniest of whimpers, and nuzzles further into my lap. And I feel the world disintegrating around us into nothing but a fog of vague shapes and colors. And it feels like all of my life, my very existence, was leading me to this moment, a moment too blissful and perfect and surreal to possibly be contained in the normal realms of space and time; like the two of us have separated from the rest of the world and are adrift in the sea of time itself and I never want to go back.

“You should tell her, you know.” Raven’s voice crosses the ocean of time and jerks me back to reality so quickly my head is swimming as I yank my hands away from Clarke and wedge them awkwardly behind my lower back. My heart is racing again, my face burning. I feel like a teenage boy who’s mother just caught him smoking pot and looking at Playboys at the same time. 

But Raven isn’t laughing at me. She isn’t judging me or staring at me in appalled shock. She doesn’t look surprised at all. And I know I shouldn’t be surprised that she isn’t surprised. Of course Raven knows. 

“What?” I whisper, feigning confusion. “Tell her what?”

Raven cocks her head and raises her brows as if to say, ‘Come on, Lexa... Do you think I was born yesterday? You know I’m a fucking genius. Now stop wasting my time.’

“That you murdered Sebastian on purpose.” Raven answers sarcastically, rolling her big brown eyes for good measure. “I mean... You should tell her how you FEEL, you idiot.”

“How long have you known?” I ask.

Raven chuckles softly. “Longer than you have, I reckon. I mean... No offense, but sometimes you’re a bit CLUELESS.” She laughs. 

“I’m telling you, Lexa... You need to tell her.” Raven repeats. “She’s waiting to hear it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart leaping into my throat at her words.

“I mean...” Raven says with a small smile. “She’s waiting to hear it.”

“I...” I stammer nervously, staring down at Clarke, my eyes tracing the beautiful curve of the tiny smile she’s wearing in her sleep. “I... I don’t... I don’t know how to tell her.”

“Well, you best figure it out.” Raven says, flopping back onto her side and closing her eyes. “And I mean SOON. Before Bellamy does.”

Raven’s words play over and over in my head, but I am not any closer to figuring it out as the movie gives way to credits and credits give way to an empty blue screen and the only sound left in the room is the soft breathing of my best friends. And I count away the seconds with each rise and fall of Clarke’s chest, searching my own chest for courage and strength. 

And my fingers are running through her hair again when I feel Clarke gently stirring and, completely panicking, I can think of no solution but pretending to be asleep. I close my eyes and drop my head to the side, letting my mouth hang open for extra effect. Heart racing, I peek through a slit in my eyelids to see her blinking up at me. The fingers of my right hand are still tangled in her hair and my left hand is resting lightly on her tummy, and I can only hope she is too sleepy to register any of this. 

Clarke yawns and then smiles. And she reaches for the arm draped across her belly and pulls it more tightly around her as she rolls onto her side and nestles back into the hollow of my thighs. And I stare down at her in wonder as Raven’s words echo like rolling thunder in my mind: ‘She’s waiting to hear it. She’s waiting to hear it. She’s waiting to hear it.’

But I am still no closer to figuring it out as my own eyelids finally close and my fingers go limp in her tangles and sleep steals me away like a bandit in the night.


	35. The Hundred (Missed Opportunities, That Is)

Chapter 35  
The Hundred (Missed Opportunities, That Is)  
OR  
The (Kind of Horrible) Origin Story of a Wise, Raging, Progressive Feminist

LEXA

It’s been a week since Clarke fell asleep in my lap and Raven caught me admiring her like a pyro watching a house burn to ash. A week. A whole damn week. Seven damn days. And I haven’t told Clarke a damn thing. 

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. I mean... I’ve spent almost every waking minute thinking about it since the moment I woke to pain radiating through every cramped muscle in my body, only to glance down at Clarke still asleep in my lap and experience a whole different kind of pain like a blade of fire in my chest. I needed to pee. I NEEDED to stretch. But Clarke had looked so peaceful, so, so beautiful, I couldn’t bring myself to move for fear of waking her. I would have endured that pain forever, but too soon, Raven’s groan had broken the stillness and everyone was stirring to life around me.

“Oh, God...” Raven had moaned, sitting up on the other sofa and stretching her back while rubbing at her neck. “I can’t feel my legs. Or my spinal cord, for that matter. Is everything still attached?”

At her words Clarke had opened her eyes and shot up out of my lap, blushing furiously.

“Lexa, I’m sorry!” She had exclaimed. “Was I squashing you all night?”

“Naw... I’m fine.” I had lied. Truth is I had felt just like Raven: numb and tingly and stiff and sore all over. “I slept great.”

“I’m sure you did.” Raven had chuckled, catching my eye with a look so obvious she might as well have been bouncing on her tip-toes clutching a poster board with ‘Lexa loves Clarke’ plastered on it in rainbow paints and glitter. But Clarke, rubbing at her eyes, hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Looks like Luna slept great too. Octavia, maybe not so much.” Raven had commented, nodding towards the girls on the floor at her feet. Luna had apparently rolled in the middle of the night, pressing up against Octavia so that O was squished in a ball between Luna and the base of the sofa. Luna, on the other hand, looked perfectly comfortable sprawled out on her back like a starfish, one arm and leg slung over Octavia. Laughing and looking to stir up trouble, Raven had nudged Octavia, digging her toes into O’s tummy until she stirred.

“Stop.” Octavia had groaned in a gravelly, sleep-laden voice, swatting blindly at Raven’s foot without bothering to open her eyes. Then, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings, she had kicked her hips back against Luna. 

“Luna, get off me, man.” She had grumbled, rolling over and flopping Luna’s limp limbs off of her. “You trying to cuddle with me, or what? You know I love you... But not like THAT. I mean... You could at least buy me dinner first.”

“Sorry.” Luna had mumbled, flipping onto her belly and burying her face back into her pillow so her voice was a muffled gargle. “Your fault for sleeping beside me. At least I didn’t puke on you this time. But you know I cannot be held responsible for anything my limbs do while I’m asleep.”

“Apparently neither can I.” Clarke had said to me in a quiet voice, still blushing. “I didn’t mean to cuddle up on you either, Lexa.”

And, unable to stop myself, I had replied with, “You can cuddle up with me anytime, Clarke. I’ll always be your pillow.”

And suddenly I was the one blushing furiously, unable to comprehend what I had just said. And Clarke was looking at me with her eyebrows furrowed and a small, curious smile, as if trying to figure out what the hell I had meant. And I could have told her right then and there. I could have told her that I would happily waste away the hours and the days and the years with her head in my lap and her hair tangled in my fingers and her scent in my lungs. I could have told her then. But...

“Clarke, do you have anything edible in this pantry, or what?” Octavia had called from the kitchen, pulling Clarke’s eyes from mine. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving, O.” Clarke had laughed, rising to assist her. “It’s a wonder you’re not in the heavyweight division yet, as much as you eat. There’s Lucky Charms in there somewhere.” 

And, just like that, that moment had passed, just the first of a hundred moments, a hundred opportunities I hadn’t had the balls to take. 

I could have told her the other night after practice when I kicked Lincoln’s elbow and Clarke had grasped my ankle and pulled my foot into her lap for inspection. Clarke had rubbed at the lump already growing on my instep, frowning down at the green and purple creeping towards my toes. And her hands were both strong and gentle, operating with the tender confidence of a doctor’s. And at her touch, it was more than just pain that had shot up my leg and made the breath catch inside of me, made my teeth clamp down on my lip. And I could have told her then. I could have told her that her touch has the power to break me apart. And her touch has the power to heal me. 

But instead I had just pulled my foot away, insisting it was only a bruise, laughing at her concern and pushing myself to my feet so I could walk away, gritting my teeth with every small step, trying my damnedest not to hobble.

And I could have told her the next day when I found her during lunch hunched at a table in the library frantically scrambling to finish a problem set for Chem. 

“What did the fish say...” I had asked, as Clarke jumped in her seat. “When it swam into a concrete wall?”

“Damn, Lexa!” Clarke had answered, clutching at her chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“That’s right.” I had laughed, plunking down across from her. “Well... The first part, anyways. Not the rest of it. Dam! The fish said, ‘dam.’”

Clarke had shaken her head at me, grinning despite herself, just like she had done so many times over the years. 

“Your jokes don’t get any better with time, do they?” She had laughed. “Feels just like we’re back in sixth grade again. Got any Teddy Grahams in your jacket?”

I could have told her then. I could have told her that our lunches in the library were the best part of my days back then; that every minute I spent with her in the years since was always the best part of my day; that I would spend every day of my life thinking up stupid jokes to tell her just to see her shake her head at me; just to see her grin.

But I had just pulled the baggy of grapes from my pocket and tossed it into her lap.

“Even better.” She had grinned and I could only hold my tongue and smile back.

And I could have told her last night when, growing weary of the Great Depression, Clarke had risen from the end of my bed, letting her textbook fall unceremoniously from her lap to the floor, and snagged Master Anya’s old, dusty guitar from the corner. After fiddling with the knobs for a moment, she had rested against the headboard beside me and proceeded to play the most hauntingly beautiful melody I’ve ever heard, while I sat entranced, lost in the wonder of her.

“That was beautiful.” I had whispered when she finished. “What song was that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

“That’s because you haven’t.” Clarke had chuckled. “No one has. It’s just something I made up.” She had shrugged.

“No wonder.” I had replied.

“No wonder what?” She had asked. “No wonder you hadn’t heard it?”

“No.” I had answered. “No wonder it was beautiful.”

And Clarke had smiled, blushing slightly at the compliment. And I could have told her then. I could have told her that the only thing more beautiful than her music are the notes of her laughter, the melody of her voice, the soft pauses of her breaths, the rhythm of her heart, the whisper of her sigh. I could have told her.

But instead I had flashed her a mischievousness smile.

“That song was beautiful.” I had said again, pushing off the bed and heading to the corner myself. “But you know what could make it even better? A little percussive accompaniment.” I had teased, pushing the stack of old CDs from atop the snare drum and beating out a disjointed rhythm on its dusty surface.

“You’re horrible.” Clarke had laughed, once again shaking her head and grinning. “But still... If you insist...” And she had plucked out another melody filling the awkward gaps between my drumbeats with absolute beauty.

And I could have told her later that night when the clock had flicked past one and, leaving our homework still largely undone, Clarke had plunked down beside me, figuring she might as well crash here, as late as it was. And I had woven my fingers together to keep myself from reaching for her. And I had inched as far over my edge of the mattress as gravity would allow. And I had counted and recounted the stars on my ceiling until the rhythm of Clarke’s breathing slowed like the gentle lapping of water on rock, and long after still.

And I could have told her the moment I had awoken to find my chin tucked into the hollow of her neck and my arm wrapped around her ribs, and every cell of my body aching simultaneously with desire and embarrassment. I could have told her that I wanted nothing more in my life than to hold her; to feel the warmth of her skin against mine; to feel her heartbeat vibrating through my own chest; to hold her, hold her, hold her, and never have to let go.

But I had just pried my arms from her and practically rolled out of the bed in my urgency to detach myself from her. And I had mumbled frantic apologies, absolutely mortified, but at least thankful that my fingers hadn’t managed to creep their way beneath her shirt during the night. And Clarke had just laughed at my fuddled, flustered words, insisting that it was ‘no big deal,’ and that it was ‘her turn to be the pillow anyways.’ And I could have told her then. I could have told her. 

But instead I had just sprung out of the blankets and bolted from the room, insisting I really, really had to pee.

Seven damn days. A hundred moments. A hundred perfect opportunities. And here I am, cursing my cowardice, no closer to sharing my feelings with Clarke than I am to becoming the first astronaut to land on Mars or discovering the cure for Leukemia or solving world hunger, starting with Octavia. And I can’t stop thinking about it or imagining a hundred different scenarios ranging from the most laughably outlandish romantic gestures to pathetic tearful confessions to simply mentioning it in an offhand, I-swear-it’s-no-big-deal-and-I’m-definitely-NOT-dying-inside-right-now, casual sort of way. And I have no damn clue of how to actually go about it.

“You got something on your mind, kiddo?” Anya’s voice pulls me from my painful thoughts and back to the chilly, sodden trail my feet have been navigating for miles without any assistance from my brain.

“Huh?” I reply. “Why do you ask?”

“You haven’t said a word for the last two miles, Lexa.” Anya chuckles. “Except to comment on that orange mushroom that was shaped like Donald Trump’s combover. And while I certainly don’t mind hiking in silence, it might be good to talk about whatever is bothering you. I can help you hash it out, you know?”

“You think there’s something bothering me?” I ask, stalling, not knowing what to say. 

“Isn’t there?” Master Anya asks in a way that suggests it’s not actually a question. “Come on, kid. Let’s take a break.”

Anya plunks down on a massive fallen log, completely ignoring the fact that it’s wet and rotting and covered in moss. She pulls a giant apple from her sack and unsheathes the blade hooked to her belt, a huge double-edged hunting knife (like the kind Carol or Maggie would delve into the temple of a walker) and casually slices chunks of flesh from the apple, offering one to me before gripping another with her teeth. The knife is excessively sharp and I swear Master Anya carries it in the HOPE that she might actually cross paths with a bear or a cougar or a serial killer hiding in the bushes on one of these hikes and have an excuse to use it on something other than stickered, supermarket produce. 

I gnaw on the sweet-tart apple, wondering what to say. I finally just settle on the truth.

“I don’t know how to do it, Master Anya.” I sigh. “I don’t know how to tell Clarke how I... What I... Well, you know...”

“Aaaahhhh... I see.” Master Anya replies in a voice that tells me she already knew exactly what was bothering me long before she decided to ask. “I’m going to share a story with you, Lexa. And it may seem like it’s long and windy and meandering... But stick with me, I swear there’s a point to it eventually.”

“Ummm... OK.” I mumble in reply, unsure of where this story may take me. 

“Once upon a time,” Anya begins, her eyes glazing over with a distant dreaminess. “I was in love... MADLY in love... With a boy named Parker... Parker Deline. He had the brightest brown eyes, like lacquered cherry wood, and dirty blond hair in a mushroom cut...”

“A mushroom cut?” I interrupt, confused.

“Yeah, a mushroom cut.” Anya replies, as if confused by my confusion. “You know... Where they buzz the sides but leave the top?” She motions with her hands. “A mushroom cut.” She repeats as if maybe the problem is that I simply heard her wrong. “They were all the rage back in my day. All the cute boys had them... Devon Sawa, JTT...”

“Who?” I ask.

Anya just stares at my blinking face in disbelief that I have no idea what she’s talking about. She’s apparently appalled. “Johnathan Taylor T-” She pauses, shaking her head. “You know what? Never mind. He’s not part of this story. Anyways... Parker’s hair fell perfectly into his eyes when he flicked his head right and it drove me absolutely crazy. And I decided he just HAD to be mine.” 

“So, naturally, I did everything I could think of to seduce him. I wore my fanciest barrettes to school. I shared my peanut butter crackers with him. I-”

“Wait...” I interrupt with a laugh. “HOW old were you?”

“Nine.” Anya shrugs as I just laugh harder. “Perfectly old enough to know what I wanted. And I wanted Parker. So I chased him around the playground at recess and I let Joey Marcelli pull my pigtails whenever he was around so he would get jealous. And I waited and waited and waited for him to confess his love for me and finally ask me out. And after an eternity-”

“An eternity?” I ask, arching my brows.

“OK, it was like a week and a half.” Anya admits with a laugh. “But it felt like an eternity. I was NINE remember? Now where was I?”

“After an eternity...” I provide.

“Right.” She says. “After an eternity I finally decide if HE’S not going to make a move, I would. I guess you could say I was a raging progressive feminist from the beginning.” She laughs. “And so, I sat down beside him on the bus and grabbed his hand and told him I wanted to be his girlfriend. And he... he...”

“What did he do?” I ask, grinning, on edge with anticipation.

“He pushed me away and said I had ‘gross girl cooties.’ Yelled it for everyone on the bus to hear.”

“What did YOU do?” I ask, torn between sympathy and the overwhelming desire to laugh.

“Punched him in the face, of course.” Anya shrugs. “Again... Raging progressive feminist... And I pretended not to care. I pretended to hate him for the rest of the day and didn’t let myself cry until I got home. Then I cried and cried and cried.”

“This is kind of a horrible story, Master Anya.” I comment, still fighting the urge to laugh. “What did you say the point of it was?”

“I’m still getting to that.” Anya replies. “Patience, kiddo. Anyways, I was crying and crying in my room and apparently my mom could hear my pathetic sobbing because she called me to her. She was working on a puzzle in the living room. She loved jigsaw puzzles; could work on them for hours at a time. Anyways, after she finally convinced me to tell her why I was blubbering like an idiot, she pulled me onto her lap and pointed out the pieces of the puzzle strewn out all over the coffee table. And she told me, ‘Anya... Life is like a puzzle.’ The woman loved metaphors.” Master Anya explains as a side note. 

“She said.” She continues. “You spend all of your life arranging the pieces of it, fitting them together one-by-one. And it’s an adventure putting the picture together and catching little glimpses of what your life might be as you go along. But sometimes it can be tricky too. Sometimes you think you’ve found the exact right piece, but it just doesn’t fit. And you’re so convinced that it should fit that you push and push against it, trying to force it in, not realizing that the right piece is only inches from your hand.”

“I don’t understand, Master Anya.” I say, frowning at her. “Are you saying that Clarke isn’t the right piece for me?”

“I told you... Patience, Lexa.” Master Anya scolds me. “I wasn’t finished with the story. My mom told me that day that sometimes the pieces you pick up, no matter how confident you are in them, can be the wrong pieces. But, that you should never regret picking them up, because there is only one way to know for sure. And if you get too overwhelmed when the pieces don’t fit... If you give up... You’ll never finish the puzzle. You’ll never get to see the whole picture completed.”

I blink at Master Anya, still confused, unsure of whether or not she is finally done with her story. “What I’m saying,” She says. “Is that the only way you’ll ever know if Clarke and you fit is to give it a try. You have to be brave enough to pick up the piece and try it out. Otherwise there will just be a gaping hole in your puzzle forever. Does that make sense?”

“No.” I answer. “Not really.”

“Well it didn’t really make sense to me at the time either.” Anya confesses with a laugh. “I just wanted my mom to tell me what to do to make Parker like me. I didn’t want to hear that he wasn’t the right piece for my puzzle. But two weeks later I realized I was actually in love with Stephen Palper and forgot all about Parker.”

“I would never forget all about Clarke.” I say, knowing in the very core of me that the words are true.

“That’s not what I meant.” Anya says. “God... I’m worse at this than my mother. You probably shouldn’t be coming to a thirty-three-year-old who lives with no one but an ornery cat for relationship advice, really. But... What I was trying to say is you have to step up and tell her. I know the possibility of rejection is scary...”

“I’m not scared of being rejected.” I lie. “OK... Well maybe a little bit. But, I’m more scared that... Scared that... If she doesn’t want me... I’ll have ruined EVERYTHING. What if she can’t even look at me the same way?” I ask, the fears I’ve been holding inside of me for weeks finally spilling out. “What if everything gets so awkward she can’t even be around me? What if she doesn’t want to be friends anymore?”

My voice is barely a whisper. The thought absolutely terrifies me. What would I do without Clarke’s friendship? I’ve already lost Costia and my dad and my mom. I couldn’t bear to lose Clarke. I couldn’t bear it.

Master Anya wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against her side. “Lexa... I know Clarke pretty damn well. And I’m pretty damn certain that there isn’t ANYTHING you could do to lose her. In fact, I’m pretty damn certain that she’s WAITING for you to tell her... Waiting to hear it. But even if I’m wrong... Even if she gets completely freaked out... I KNOW how much she cares about you and even if it took her a little bit of time, she could never abandon you as a friend.”

Master Anya hands me another slice of apple to gnaw on as I chew on her words. ‘She’s waiting to hear it,’ Anya had said. It was the same exact thing Raven had told me. But, as much as I long to believe them both, I’m still terrified.

“I want to tell her.” I sigh. “I’ve TRIED to tell her. But it always feels like my tongue is swelling and I can’t breathe. Or like I might throw up or pass out. I’m scared, Master Anya.” I admit. “Really, really scared.”

“You should be.” Master Anya laughs, tossing her core into the trees, wiping her blade on her jacket sleeve, and sheathing it. “Love is supposed to be scary. It’s like fighting, Lexa. On the mats there’s always the chance things might not go as planned. You might lose by twenty points and make a fool of yourself. You might just get kicked in the face and knocked straight to the ground. It’s safer... Saner even... To never step into the ring. But why do we fight?” 

I’ve never really stopped to think about it that way. Why DO I fight? “I guess, for the rush?” I suggest.

“That’s a good answer, kiddo.” Master Anya laughs. “A lot of competitors fight to get the gold. They’re the ones who cry in the bathroom after they lose. But true fighters... Fighters like you and me... We fight for different reasons. We fight for the rush of facing our own fears; we fight because, win or lose, it is in the ring that we find out who we truly are when safety and comfort are stripped away and all that is left is our courage and determination, our strength and hope. We fight to find our limits. And we fight because we cannot stand to sit on the sidelines and watch, wondering all the while if we might have had what it takes to defeat the ones who stepped up in our place.” 

“Love is the same way.” She says. “It might be terrifying. It SHOULD be terrifying. But ask yourself... How much longer can you stand to sit on the outside and watch boys like Finn pulling Clarke around by the hand, wondering if maybe YOU might be the one who could truly make her happy, give her everything she deserves, if YOU had only stepped up?”

Master Anya’s words cut deep, slicing through me like her knife through the apple. She’s right. I can’t stand it. I hadn’t realized just why at the time, but watching Finn drag Clarke around was absolute torture. I felt myself die a little inside every time he made her cry. But I think I died even more every time he made her smile. Because I want to be the one who makes her smile. I want to be the one who makes her laugh. I want to be the one who spends her whole life trying to make Clarke happy. But to do that, I’m going to have to find the courage to step up.

“It’s SUPPOSED to be scary...” I echo her words, half asking, half telling myself.

“It’s supposed to be crap-your-pants scary, Lexa.” Master Anya laughs, rising to her feet and slinging her pack back over her shoulder. “But fear is what makes things fun, isn’t it? Now, come on... We’ve got to get to the top of this mountain so I can stand dangerously close to its edge. You’re not the only one who craves a good rush.” She flashes me a smile before starting off back up the trail. 

I take a deep breath of pine and earth and decaying bark and new growth. “Tonight.” I whisper, my voice nothing more than the stirring of leaves. “I’ll tell her tonight.”


	36. Just a Little Late

Chapter 36  
Just a Little Late  
OR  
Fudging, Fudging, Fudging Nut-Balls

LEXA

I raise my hand, poise my fist, clench my teeth, and wait to hear the rasp of my knuckles on wood. But again nothing happens. My fist, sweaty and unsteady, freezes inches from the door and then falls limply to my side once more. 

‘Damn it. Damn it. Damn it, Lexa,’ I curse myself. This shouldn’t be that hard. For once Master Anya was wrong... This isn’t crap-your-pants scary. It’s puke-yourself-collapse-AND-crap-your-pants-scary. And I’m already on the verge of hyperventilating. 

I wipe my slick palms against my jeans and try to summon my courage. But it is as elusive as the deep breath I cannot seem to catch. And the doubts are running through my mind like the panic in my blood. Maybe I should have called first. Maybe being spontaneous and catching her by surprise was a stupid idea. Hell, maybe I should have just told her over the phone. No... Only a coward would confess their love for someone over the phone. This has to be done face to face. 

But I feel so awkward just loitering out here on her doorstep. Maybe I should have brought her something... Something to offer. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I should go get her something. But I have no idea what. Flowers? Chocolate? Pizza? A box of Teddy Grahams? Hell if I know. But I don’t have any money to get her anything anyways, and I know deep down that such an errand would just be me finding yet another way to postpone this moment... Maybe even to talk myself out of it altogether.

So I raise my fist again. And I hesitate again. And then I finally do it. I knock once, twice, three times.

‘Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls.’ I repeat under my breath, as if the words might calm me. ‘Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. Fudging-’

“Lexa!” Clarke’s voice cuts over my mutterings. She’s standing on the other edge of the door frame mere inches from me, looking like a damn goddess in a soft blue sweater that makes her eyes practically glow and jeans that hug her hips as fiercely as I long to. “Hey.”

She looks surprised, but also pleased, to see me. “I didn’t know you were coming over. I thought you were hiking in the Gorge with Master Anya...”

“I... We...” I stutter like an idiot. “We were. Hiking. I’m back. Well, I guess you could see that, huh? I mean, I’m standing right in front of you. You’re not blind. And you ARE smart. And-” I cut myself off. God, either I’m stuttering and can’t string five words into a sentence, or I’m rambling incessantly. What the fudging nut-balls is wrong with me? I have to get it together.

“Uhhh... Everything OK?” Clarke asks, half frowning in confusion, half laughing at me.

“Yeah. No... Everything’s fine.” I sputter. “I just... I wanted to talk to you about... Something.”

“OK.” Clarke smiles, pulling the door open wider to let me through. “I’m actually really glad you came. I’ve got something I wanted to talk to you about too.” She leads me down the hall towards the living room. 

“Mom’s out again with Mr. Kane. I think they’ve really hit it off. And I guess I’m glad it’s working out. But it’s still hella weird to run into him standing in my kitchen or sitting in my living room or just strolling down the hallway. The other day, I didn’t know he was here and I walked in on him in the bathroom! Luckily he was just drying his hands. He had all his clothes on. Still... The thought of what I MIGHT have seen...” She pauses to shudder at the idea, and if I wasn’t on the verge of throwing up, I would have laughed at the image. 

“Anyways,” She continues. “I’ve learned that, even though it’s MY house, I’m going to have to make it a habit of knocking before I enter any room. If I walked in on the two of them making out, I think I’d develop PTSD.” She laughs. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice I don’t join in. 

“You hungry?” She asks, stepping into the kitchen.

“No.” All I’ve eaten today was a pre-hike power bar and the apple slices Master Anya offered me four hours, six miles, and 2,340 feet of elevation gain ago. I watched Anya devour a bag of trail mix and a bag of baby carrots and a bag of granola and a bag of rice crackers wrapped in seaweed and a bag of something else I’ve already forgotten. But ever since I made the decision to tell Clarke tonight, I haven’t been able to stomach a thing. I’m not hungry... I’m downright nauseated. “No... I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself.” Clarke shrugs, snagging a box of Poptarts from the cupboard and plunking down on the infamous love seat. “So... What did you wanna tell me?” She asks through a mouthful of crumbly stickiness. 

I stare at her looking up at me with mild curiosity and I open my mouth and I wait for the words to roll perfectly from it like a wave, sweeping her off of her feet in one wild gush. But instead I hear:

“Uhhh... How about you tell me whatever it is YOU wanted to talk about first? Mine can wait.” 

Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. I’m such a coward. Such a damn coward.

“OK...” Clarke agrees. “But... At the risk of sounding like Octavia... Are you going to sit down, or what?”

I realize I’ve been pacing the room nervously and, blushing, finally sit beside Clarke, trying my damnedest to keep my jittery feet still. I also try my damnedest to battle gravity, fighting its efforts to pull me into Clarke, close enough for me to smell her hair and skin; close enough for her to smell my fear. 

“So...” Clarke begins, and I can already feel her tensing awkwardly beside me. I didn’t think it would be humanly possible for me to become any more nervous than I already was, but suddenly I am not only dreading speaking my own news, part of me is also worried about hearing Clarke’s. 

“Bellamy’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow.” She says, trying to sound casual, her voice awkwardly cheerful.

The words wash over me like a wave, sweeping my feet out from under me in one wild gush.

“Like... DINNER, dinner.” She adds, in case it wasn’t clear the first time around. Three words... A veritable tsunami picking me up and tossing me and driving me down into the rocks.

“Oh... Uhhh...” I try to form a response. But my head is swimming. I feel dizzy. I feel empty. I feel sick. I am still tumbling. Tumbling. Tumbling.

“I know...” Clarke says as if she is agreeing with me on something. I have no idea what she thinks I am thinking. “It was a total surprise when he asked me. I mean... I guess I should have seen it coming after what Raven said the other day. I guess I should know by now that Raven’s never wrong about anything. Still...”

“He... Asked you... Today?” I ask, the words blustering out between breaths.

“Yeah.” Clarke shrugs. “Just called me this afternoon out of the blue.”

Fudging, fudging, fudging, nut-balls. Raven warned me. She freakin’ warned me. I had seven days. I had a hundred perfect opportunities I never took. And now I feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut; like that priest on Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom has ripped right into my insides and yanked my heart right out. I imagine this is exactly what it must feel like to get kicked in the balls.

“And you... Said, ‘Yes?’” I ask, though I already know the answer. I just don’t want to believe it.

“Well... Yeah.” Clarke answers. The false cheerfulness is gone from her voice. She’s fiddling with the edge of her blue sweater like God playing with the edge of the sky. She seems... Uncomfortable.

“I mean... I hesitated at first.” She admits. “After all, it’s Bellamy we’re talking about. BELLAMY. It’s kinda weird with him being Octavia’s brother and all. And I mean... We’ve been friends for a really long time... And I’ve always kinda thought he was cute... But I’d never really thought of him THAT way before, you know? Plus, he’s Finn’s best friend, which could potentially put us into some really awkward situations... But...”

Clarke turns towards me, lifting her eyes from her sweater to meet mine. They are wide and earnest and almost frantic. She is looking to me for approval. She wants, NEEDS me to reassure her that this is a good idea and I support it. 

“He told me that he’s been wanting to ask me out for years, Lexa.” She tells me. “YEARS. He says he’s had a crush on me since sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. And he just never had the courage to tell me. And he says he wanted to, but then I was with Finn, and then there was Gina, and... Well... He says everything’s finally lining up and he’s not gonna waste another second of his life waiting to ask me. And... How could I possibly say ‘no’ to that? I mean... YEARS.” She says again. “He’s been in love with me for YEARS. Can you believe that?”

Yes. Yes, I can believe that. I can effing believe that. 

Clarke’s eyes are still wide and hopeful and almost pleading. She is still waiting for my approval. And I realize that Bellamy is just like the male version of me, a hopeless mortal pining over a goddess. And it’s not too late. I could still tell her. I could still tell her that I’VE been in love with her for years too. I could tell her that as much as Bellamy wants her, I want her more, a million times more.

But I just hold my tongue. Because I see it now... It is HIM that she wants. She wants him. Not me. 

And it makes perfect sense. Because Bellamy’s a boy and I’m not. And Clarke likes boys, because she is normal and I’m not. And how could I have been so pathetically stupid as to believe I ever had a chance with her? With boys like Bellamy and Finn around, why would she EVER want me?

“That’s... Uh...” I sputter out, feeling the words choke inside of me as my throat closes painfully. My throat is burning. My eyes are burning. Fudging, fudging nut-balls... I’m going to effing cry. “That’s great, Clarke. Really great.”

“Really? You think so?” Clarke asks. Her voice is strange. I expected it to be smooth with relief, and it partly is. But I swear I almost hear a tinge of regret or... Did I imagine it? The jagged edge of disappointment. But I can’t bring myself to look at her, and by the time she speaks again, her voice twangs with cheerfulness once more. “Wanna help me figure out what to wear?”

“Uhhh... I uhhh... I actually have to go.” I choke out, pushing myself from the cushiony chasm of her sofa, avoiding her eyes all the while.

“You have to go?” Clarke asks, confused. “But you just got here. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I reply unconvincingly.

“You seem upset, Lexa.” Clarke says, frowning at me. “Wait... Do YOU like Bellamy? Is that it? Because if you like him, I won’t go out with him, I swear. I’ll make up some excuse and-”

“No, I don’t like BELLAMY, Clarke!” I blurt out, nearly shouting in my frustration and hurt. I’m on the verge of tears and I can’t be here a second longer. I can’t. “I’ve never liked BELLAMY.” 

The way I say it, it’s so painfully obvious, and I’m now on the verge of confessing as well as crying. I feel like I practically already have, and I might as well just tell her everything. But I can’t. Not right now. Not like this.

Clarke is staring at me with wide blue eyes shining with confusion and surprise at my sudden outburst. She doesn’t get it. She still doesn’t get it. And i don’t know if I’m more relieved or disappointed.

“I’m sorry.” I mumble, lowering my voice. “I just... I have to go. I’m just... I’m just not feeling very good.” It’s one of the few truthful things I’ve said to her tonight. “Sorry. I’m uhh... I’m just going to go.” I mutter one last time and I rush from the room, not turning back to look at her once, even as she calls after me. And I push my way through the door and out into the chilly dusk. And I climb atop Safe Passage, the Toddler Tromper, and throw my weight into the pedals with the fervor of Lance Armstrong. And it isn’t until I round the corner that the floodgates finally open and the wind beats the tears from my face.


	37. Spaghetti and Daydreams with a Side of Distraction

Chapter 37  
Spaghetti and Daydreams with a Side of Distraction  
OR  
The Sixteen-Year-Old with the Attention Span of a Four-Year-Old and the Boy who Holds Doors Better than Conversations 

CLARKE

“I challenge thee, Fair Lady Clarke of House Griffin, first of thy name, to a duel.” Lexa pronounced, adopting a pathetic attempt at an old-English accent, sounding a lot like Lady Kluck, the hen from Disney’s Robin Hood cartoon. She raised her breadstick before her, brandishing it like a miniature sword.

“No way.” Clarke laughed. 

Lexa’s face fell with mock offense. “May I inquire as to why My Lady doth refuse mine challenge?” 

“The first time you challenged me to a breadstick fight, you creamed me.” Clarke answered. “And then you ate my breadstick!” 

“Aye, My Lady speaketh true.” Lexa confessed. “But it is known throughout the land that to lose a breadstick duel is to forfeit one’s rights to thy breadstick.”

“The SECOND time you convinced me to battle you...” Clarke shot back. “I won. And when I demanded my reward, you shoved the whole thing in your mouth before I could grab it from you.”

“What malicious inculpations!” Lexa replied, placing a palm on her chest as if unable to believe Clarke’s gall. “Thou doth slander mine noble name. I have no recollection of the sort.”

“Whether you remember it or not, it happened.” Clarke argued. “And you still owe me a breadstick.”

“Aye.. If that truly be the case,” Lexa replied, still extending her breadstick at the ready. “May the gods grant you favor, victory, and justice today.”

Clarke knew it would be wiser not to engage in Lexa’s game, but the combination of the glint in Lexa’s sea green eyes, the cocky smile playing on her face, and the goofiness of her ridiculous accent were too much for Clarke to resist. 

Clarke rolled her eyes dramatically, tightening her grip on her own crusty breadstick. “I’m not going to fight you, Lex- On guard!” She laughed, launching a surprise attack.

Of course Lexa parried the attack like a veteran breadstick fighter and countered with her own. The breadsticks met with ‘crunch’ after ‘crunch’ sending bits of crust fluttering to the table like snowflakes. Three more attacks. Three more deflections. And then... Clarke’s breadstick snapped down the middle with a final heartbreaking ‘crunch.’

“Ha!” Lexa exclaimed, raising her own intact breadstick. “Lords and Ladies, we have a victor. May I say... My Lady fought valiantly and skillfully. However, the gods have spoken.” She extended her open palm. “Thy breadstick, My Lady...”

“No.” Clarke answered. “You can’t have it.”

“My dearest condolences, My Lady,” Lexa replied. “But you MUST relinquish thy breadstick.”

“Fine.” Clarke pouted, extending the broken halves of her breadstick towards Lexa. But before Lexa could snatch them from her palm, she closed her fist around them, lifted them to her face, and dragged her tongue along each side. Then, laughing at the shocked repulsion on Lexa’s face, she offered them to Lexa again. “Your breadstick, My Lady.” She mimicked Lexa. 

“Foul play!” Lexa exclaimed. “Lady Clarke, you besmirch the good name of House Griffin with thy childish and unsanitary actions.” 

“Hey!” Master Anya lifted her head from her conversation with Luna and Raven on the opposite end of the table, scolding Clarke and Lexa from the other side of Lincoln and Octavia. “If you two don’t quit playing with your food, I’m confiscating ALL of the breadsticks.” 

“Yes, Master Anya.” Clarke answered as Lexa just laughed.

“You don’t want HER’S.” Lexa warned, returning to her normal voice. “She already licked the whole thing.”

“Eat your food.” Master Anya sighed, tiredly. Though Clarke could see the corners of her mouth fighting the urge to smile.

“Here.” Lexa said, holding her breadstick out to Clarke.

“What?” Clarke replied. “But you won...”

“As victor,” Lexa answered. “I have sole possession of both breadsticks and it is my right to do with each as I please. In addition to your soiled breadstick, I wish to offer you my own.” She finished, laying the breadstick across both of her open palms and bowing her head regally. At this point, Clarke was half surprised she hadn’t pushed out of her chair and knelt before her right there on the ugly marinara-stained carpet. “Will My Lady be pleased to accept mine offering?”

Clarke reached out suspiciously and snagged the breadstick. “Did you lick yours too when I wasn’t looking?” She asked, narrowing her eyes at Lexa.

“Of course not.” Lexa laughed, in her normal voice. “That would just be gross.”

“Then... Why?” Clarke asked, still confused.

“Because, you’re right... I cheated you out of your winnings last time.” Lexa admitted. “And a Woods always pays her debts.” She winked.

 

“Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice pulled Clarke from her reveries, reeling her back from the sea of memories past like a fish caught on a line. Clarke pulled her eyes from the basket of breadsticks sitting between them and tried to refocus them on the boy across from her. 

“What?” She asked, clueless. She hadn’t been listening. Not even a little bit.

“I said, ‘How’s Tae Kwon Do going?’” Bellamy repeated.

“Oh... Good.” Clarke answered. “Real good.” 

“Oh... Good.” Bellamy nodded. “That’s good.” 

He scrunched his lips to one side and twirled his spaghetti absently, apparently searching for another topic that might ease the silence between them. Ten minutes into dinner and Bellamy was struggling. And Clarke knew she wasn’t making it any easier on him by daydreaming and giving him one word replies to his polite attempts at conversation. 

“Uhhh... For once, we’re not training for any big tournaments right now.” Clarke offered, feeling guilty for her lack of contribution to the conversations. “Master Anya actually let us play dodgeball in class the other night.”

“Fun!” Bellamy smiled. 

“Well... It started out as fun.” Clarke corrected him. “But within minutes I swear it turned into a reenactment of the Hunger Games, with your sister starring as Katniss. Luna pegged her in the face from like two feet away and Octavia almost lost it, she was so pissed. Lexa had to get between them before any blood was drawn.” 

She chuckled at the memory. Only Lexa was brave enough to get between those two when words, fists, and feet started flying. But that was Lexa for you... Not only a peacekeeper, but a courageous one to boot. And Clarke still didn’t know how she had done it. But within seconds Luna and Octavia had gone from wanting to rip each other’s faces off to teaming up against Lexa, laughing together as they took turns trying to peg her with their dodgeballs. 

‘Shit.’ Clarke cursed herself. Bellamy was staring at her as if waiting for an answer. And Clarke, lost in her memories again, had completely missed the question. 

“Who won?” Bellamy asked again.

“Oh... Uhhh... Does anyone ever actually win at dodgeball?” Clarke replied. The game had had no clear winners. It was every man/woman for his/herself. And it had been brutal. Even Master Anya had taken a solid hit or two. 

“I used to.” Bellamy laughed with a smug smile. “I kicked ass at dodgeball. I was always better at it than I was at actual Tae Kwon Do.”

“Seems to me you were pretty good at Tae Kwon Do.” Clarke said, more to be nice than anything else. Truth was she couldn’t remember much of Bellamy’s Tae Kwon Do skills. He had gotten his black-belt only a couple of months after Clarke had joined the team and only days later, he had quit. 

“Naw...” Bellamy admitted with a shy smile. “I was alright. But not good enough to keep up with the rest of the group. I’m much better at hockey and football and basketball than I ever was at Tae Kwon Do. I mean... Did you know I started Tae Kwon Do a whole year before Octavia decided to join me? And I was already a blue-belt when Lexa joined. But we all got our black-belts at the same time. Master Anya didn’t even let me compete in sparring for the first time until I was a high-blue-belt. She told me she wouldn’t, quote, ‘send the goat in to fight with the tiger.’ unquote.” He chuckled. “But she started dragging Lexa with us to tournaments as soon as she got her yellow-belt.”

“Yeah... Well, Lexa’s just a natural.” Clarke answered. 

She tried to imagine a little yellow-belt version of Lexa, no doubt stumbling through her first attempts at spinning hook-kicks and tornado round-kicks even though only higher belts were supposed to learn those techniques. She had probably mastered all of the advanced kicking techniques before she had even memorized her multiplication tables. Now, years later, Lexa’s kicks were a thing of beauty to watch, as memorizing as watching a dolphin leap from the waves or a cheetah pursuing its prey. It was like she had been born to fight, designed for it as much as that cheetah was designed to run.

‘Aww... Shit.’ Clarke cursed herself once more. Bellamy was staring at her yet again, waiting for her reply. And again she had not been listening. 

“Sorry... What?” She asked, turning her attention back to Bellamy, blushing at her inability to focus on him for more than thirty seconds at a time.

“I didn’t say anything.” He answered, eliciting an even deeper burn in Clarke’s cheeks.

“Oh...” She replied dully. And, unable to think of anything else to say, she reached for a breadstick from the basket and broke off its tip, crushing it between her molars. It was dry and the clump it formed in her throat was hard to swallow. And somehow it just didn’t taste as good as she had remembered it tasting. Maybe everything just tasted better after it was earned in a hard-fought battle. Maybe she should challenge Bellamy to a duel. At least it would break this awful silence. But Bellamy probably wouldn’t understand the humor of the game. He would probably just think it was stupid, even embarrassing, for two teenagers to have a breadstick duel in public. 

And so, Clarke just nibbled further along the stick, all the while tasting nothing. And she stared at Bellamy, willing herself to pay attention, watching him fiddle with his fork, pushing saucy noodles back and forth on his plate, all the while feeling nothing.

***....***

Bellamy pulled up to the curb, slid the car into park, and cut the engine. And the uncomfortable silence between them seemed to intensify tenfold in the absence of it’s low rumble. Clarke unbuckled and fiddled with the handle to the door. 

“Well...” She started awkwardly. “Thanks for dinner. I really enjoyed it.”

Bellamy turned his eyes to Clarke. He didn’t return her polite smile. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly, his lips scrunched and twitching slowly side to side, as if debating whether or not to speak the words floating around in his head. 

“Did you?” He finally asked.

Clarke was taken aback by the question. Bellamy didn’t seem angry, but genuinely inquisitive. Perhaps he had recognized that Clarke’s words were more perfunctory than anything else, the expected, courteous beginning to the fast-approaching goodbye. Clarke had felt compelled to say them and hadn’t put any more thought into them than she did when someone asked her, ‘How are you?’ and she answered with, ‘Good.’

But Bellamy had called her out on it, and now she had no idea what to say. HAD she really enjoyed it? Before Clarke could find the answer, Bellamy spoke again.

“Clarke, you know I’ve been dreaming about this... About dating you... About us being together... For years. But, after tonight, I’m thinking maybe I should have waited a little longer to finally ask you. I mean... It has only been a couple weeks. If you’re not totally over him yet, I get it.”

“Over him?” Clarke replied, confused. “You think I’m not over Finn?”

“Well,” Bellamy shrugged, his face fallen and resigned. “You just seemed a little... Distracted tonight. I figured maybe you were, you know...” Bellamy paused, dropping his gaze from Clarke to stare at the center of the steering wheel instead. “Thinking about him.”

“I wasn’t thinking about Finn.” Clarke blurted out, again taken aback. Finn hadn’t popped into her mind once tonight except to note that Finn had never opened the car door for her like Bellamy had, or that Bellamy didn’t pull a flask from his coat to spike his Coke when the waiter turned his back on them like Finn always did, or that Bellamy, unlike Finn, hadn’t given her a hard time for deciding to order a plain vanilla shake for dessert even though the menu offered over ten flavors including cupcake and maple-bacon. 

“You weren’t?” Bellamy asked, his crestfallen face lightening slightly with the faint glow of hope.

“No. Not at all.” Clarke answered.

“But... If you weren’t thinking about Finn...” Bellamy said, looking confused. “What were you thinking about? I mean... The look on your face... It just seemed... You know what?” He paused, his confused frown pulling into a smile. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He smiled. “Well... In that case... I’d love to see you again. Can I take you to the movies next weekend?”

Even in the semi-darkness of the streetlight, Bellamy’s brown eyes were wide and bright with hope. And Clarke didn’t have the heart to say anything but, ‘yes.’

“Sure. Sounds fun.” She answered. At least a movie date wouldn’t be riddled with awkward silences. If nothing else, they could at least talk about the plot-holes or unexpected twists or cheesy cliches of the movie.

“Great! Here... Let me get that for you.” Before Clarke could protest, Bellamy had practically leaped from his seat and bounded around the car to pull her door open, appearing before her with a wide, goofy grin that cut dimples into his cheeks. As different as he was from Finn, the boys had one thing in common... They were both gorgeous. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

“Ummm... OK.” Clarke answered. Her driveway was maybe ten feet long and well-lit and she certainly didn’t need an escort to navigate it. But she supposed she shouldn’t rain on Bellamy’s attempts at chivalry. 

“What happened to your mailbox?” Bellamy asked as they passed the jagged spike that was all that was left of the mailbox.

“Driving lesson gone wrong.” Clarke laughed, remembering the incident and the look of guilt and horror on Lexa’s face. 

Though they were planning on replacing him, Abby and Clarke hadn’t had the heart to throw Sebastian away, and had decided to mount him on the end of the kitchen counter instead. Now the bass collected scissors and rubber bands and miscellaneous crap in his rusty innards. And every time Clarke passed him she thought of Lexa’s face. And every time she passed him she giggled.

“Clarke?”

“What?” Clarke asked, pulling her eyes from the welcome mat to meet Bellamy’s. Shit... Whatever he had asked her, she had missed it AGAIN.

“I said, ‘Friday or Saturday for the movie?’” Bellamy answered. 

“Oh... Uhh... Saturday, I suppose.” 

“Great.” Bellamy said again. “Well, I suppose I will see you then. Though... I suppose I’ll probably see you BEFORE then... You know at school...” He mumbled awkwardly.

“Right.” Clarke answered, reaching for the doorknob. “I guess I’ll see you both of those times.” 

Bellamy chuckled as if she had made some fantastic joke, lingering, blushing slightly. 

“Ummm... OK, well thanks again.” Clarke said. She was looking for a way to end the conversation. But Bellamy was still standing before her, making no move to leave. In fact, he took a step towards her.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled.

Oh shit. Clarke’s heart kicked into action as she realized why Bellamy was still standing there as if the date hadn’t ended. In his mind, it HADN’T. He was waiting for a goodnight kiss.

Bellamy leaned in, reaching for Clarke’s wrist, no doubt so that he could pull her into him. And Clarke just reacted. Before he could grasp her arm, she swung it behind her, pivoting to push the door open.

“OK, goodnight!” She exclaimed quickly before practically diving through the door and closing it behind her. 

Shit. Clarke cursed herself again. Shit. Shit. Shit. That wasn’t subtle at all. Not even a little bit. Her stomach clinched as she imagined the crestfallen look on Bellamy’s face again. No doubt he was again wondering whether or not she was over Finn. 

Clarke pulled in a deep breath, dropping her purse onto the floor and bending to unzip her boots. She couldn’t explain her reaction to Bellamy’s attempt to kiss her. Bellamy was cute (hot, really), chivalrous, super-fit and super-nice. Any girl should have melted into his arms, melted into his kiss. But Clarke’s first instinct had been to flee. And Clarke had no idea as to why. 

It wasn’t that she wasn’t over Finn. Finn was definitely NOT the issue. Clarke was sure of that much. So what the hell WAS the issue? Why the hell had she been so ‘distracted’ (as Bellamy had so politely put it) the whole damn night? Why wasn’t she looking forward to their movie date with nervous butterflies and joyful anticipation? 

Bellamy hadn’t done anything wrong tonight. Far from it. From the moment he had arrived on her doorstep with roses he had been every bit the perfect gentlemen. So why was a part of her already dreading seeing him again? Why wasn’t she smiling right now, giddy with excitement, searching for a friend to share all of the little details of the date with? Why was she relieved to finally be home?

“Clarke, Hun?” Abby’s voice drifted towards her from the kitchen. “Is that you?” Her face popped around the corner into the hall. “How was your date?”

“Good.” Clarke answered, vaguely. “Real good. We’re going to the movies next weekend.”

“That’s great, Honey!” Abby smiled. 

“Yeah...” Clarke mumbled. “Great.”

But Abby didn’t notice Clarke’s lack of enthusiasm. She had already disappeared around the corner again.“Hey... I made cookies.” She announced. “Burnt and misshapen, just the way you like ‘em.” 

Clarke rounded the corner and snagged a lumpy cookie from the plate. “Thanks, Mom. I’m going to head up to bed. Goodnight. Love you.”

“Love you too, Hun.” Abby answered absently, wiping at the dishes drying on the counter.

“Goodnight, Sebastian.” Clarke chuckled, patting the ugly fish on his fat head. And just like always, the dull emptiness in his dead eyes made her think of how Lexa had man-(or fish)-slaughtered him. And she was smiling as she popped the cookie into her mouth and headed for the stairs, having already forgotten her boy troubles.


	38. The Very Scary Truth

Chapter 38  
The Very Scary Truth  
OR  
The Thoughts that Pop Up at 2:14 a.m.

CLARKE

‘Hey... U up?’ Clarke typed into her phone, squinting at the brightness of its backlight before turning her eyes back to the starry ceiling. It was 1:12... Kind of late to be texting anyone on a Sunday night. But, after spending a good forty minutes lying under the covers staring up at the plastic stars above her and not finding herself any sleepier than when she had begun, Clarke had snagged her phone from her bedside table. And after five good minutes of debating whether or not to send it, she had finally written the message. And now she was waiting, biting her lip in the darkness, listening for the buzz of a reply.

‘Yes.’ The answer finally came back. Just the one, lonely word.

‘How u feeling?’ Clarke asked.

‘Feeling?’ The message read. Then, a half-second later. ‘What do u mean?’ 

‘R u feeling better? Or still sick?’ Clarke wrote.

‘Oh, yeah... Much better.’ Lexa replied, as if she had forgotten all about not feeling well yesterday evening.

‘U left so fast yesterday... I was worried.’ 

‘Yeah... Sorry.’

‘What was it u wanted to tell me?’ Clarke asked.

‘Nothing.’ Lexa answered.

‘U sure???’ Clarke replied. ‘It seemed like it was important.’

Lexa didn’t reply right away. The seconds passed, unanswered. Without really thinking about it, Clarke found herself sliding her fingers into her pillowcase and pulling out the now slightly wrinkled photo of little Lexa dangling from her father’s hands. She studied the picture in the glow of her phone screen, tracing the lines of Lexa’s grin with her eyes. 

‘Naw... Forget about it.’ Lexa’s message finally bubbled. A second bubble read, ‘It’s nothing.’

Another buzz. Another bubble. ‘So... It’s late. Did u need to talk about something? Or just checking on me?’

Clarke hesitated. Why exactly HAD she started texting Lexa? Was she just bored? Was she lonely? Was part of her hoping Lexa might ask her about her date with Bellamy so she could have someone to discuss it with? She could have texted Luna or Octavia or Raven. Why the hell was she bothering Lexa at 1:17 am?

‘Ummm.... I went out with Bellamy tonight...’ She decided to reply.

‘Yeah... I know. How was it?’

‘Good.’ Clarke wrote. It was the same lame answer she had given Abby. ‘We’re going to the movies next weekend.’

Lexa didn’t reply right away. Clarke stared down at the photo in her fingers, waiting. It was a shame the camera hadn’t managed to properly capture the green of Lexa’s eyes. But it had captured her father’s and it seemed the man had passed on his eyes to Lexa as well as his grin. 

‘That’s great.’ Clarke’s screen finally read. 

‘Great...’ It’s what Bellamy, Abby, and now Lexa, had said. ‘Great.’

‘You think so?’ Clarke wrote back. ‘You think I should go out with him again?’ 

Clarke sent the message before bothering to consider why she was even asking Lexa these things. She hadn’t told Lexa the truth... That though Clarke had been with Bellamy all night, her mind had been somewhere else entirely for the majority of the date. What was she expecting Lexa to say? 

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Lexa wrote back. Then a second bubble: ‘U know you don’t hafta get my permission to go out w/ someone, right? U don’t need my approval.’

‘I know.’ Clarke replied, slightly taken aback.

‘U r old enuf to decide who u wanna date.’ Lexa wrote. ‘Old enuf to decide who makes u happy. Why does it matter to u what I think?’

Clarke hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Of course it mattered to her what Lexa thought. It ALWAYS mattered to her what Lexa thought. ‘Cuz ur my friend.’ She typed. ‘U matter.’

‘Right... Friends.’ Lexa wrote back. ‘I’m gonna sleep. C u tomorrow. Night.’

‘Oh... OK.’ Clarke replied. ‘Sorry to bother you so late. Night.’

Clarke’s eyes flicked back and forth between the photo and her phone screen until the backlight finally accepted the fact that the conversation was over and flickered out. Clarke tossed the phone aside and slid the photo back into her pillowcase, frowning at the darkness in confusion.

Lexa’s words replayed in her mind. They seemed oddly curt, even slightly hostile. But Clarke couldn’t say for sure without hearing Lexa’s tone. Maybe Lexa was angry at Clarke for dating Bellamy. Or maybe she was just tired of listening to Clarke’s boy-drama. Or maybe she genuinely meant that she thought the idea of her and Bellamy was ‘great’ and Clarke had altogether misread the messages. 

Clarke couldn’t figure out how Lexa felt about the whole Bellamy situation. And that bothered her. Bothered her a lot. And she couldn’t figure out WHY it bothered her so much. And THAT bothered her even more. 

And as she lay there, confused and bothered, and utterly sleepless, she came to the realization that, as much as she had been seeking Lexa’s approval, the idea that Lexa might actually consider a relationship between Clarke and Bellamy ‘great,’ bothered her more than anything else. She realized that maybe she hadn’t been seeking Lexa’s approval at all. Maybe she had been waiting all this time for Lexa to object, to step in and tell her she shouldn’t be dating Bellamy or Finn or anyone else, for that matter. And this realization confused Clarke even further. 

Clarke flipped onto her side and snuggled her face into her pillow. But she already knew sleep would not come... Not for a long time. Her thoughts were swimming, swirling and colliding and evaporating like molecules of water and air. Why the hell did she want Lexa to disapprove of Bellamy? Bellamy was everything she wanted in a guy, wasn’t he? And yet... If she was honest, she wasn’t all that into Bellamy, was she? Hadn’t this night made that clear... Crystal-fucking-clear? She had the attention span of a four-year-old around him, having less interest in him than in her own meandering thoughts.

And why was she so distracted anyway? What had Bellamy said? He had thought, ‘by the look on her face,’ that she had been daydreaming about Finn. But Clarke hadn’t been dreaming of Finn. What HAD she been thinking about?

And then it hit her. Hit her like a fucking big-ass, bright yellow, school bus.

Every time her eyes had glazed over and her mind had floated away like a balloon in a windstorm, she had been thinking about Lexa: Lexa and her goofiness; Lexa and her courage; Lexa and her ability to bring peace, unite enemies (at least dodgeball enemies), and spread laughter; Lexa and her beautiful kicks, her natural athleticism; Lexa and her horrible driving and the look on her face when she murdered Sebastian; Lexa who smelled better than her mother’s cookies; Lexa, whose absence was made all the more pointed by the stars glowing above her. Lexa. Lexa. Lexa. 

And at precisely 2:14 in the morning Clarke came to a heart-stopping conclusion; a conclusion that made her eyes shoot open in the darkness; a conclusion that made her breath catch in her chest.

“Oh shit... Oh shit... Oh shit.” She whispered into the silence. Maybe the reason she wanted Lexa to tell her she shouldn’t date Bellamy was because... Could it be? Could it fucking be? Clarke wanted Lexa to tell her that she should date HER? 

And suddenly Clarke could see it. It was crystal clear. Crystal-fucking-clear... Having breadstick battles with Lexa; free-jumping from swings with Lexa; holding hands in the flickering glow of the theater, watching Lexa watch the documentary because her look of rapture was more entrancing than anything onscreen; sitting beside Lexa on the sweaty mats, or the living-room floor surrounded by textbooks, or the hard white plastic chairs of a hospital, or the muddy grass of a graveyard, or the freezing shingles of her rooftop under the gaze of the stars; studying the bits and pieces of Lexa forever captured in crumpled little rectangles tucked away in a book; listening to Lexa laugh at her own horrible jokes or beat out a terrible rhythm on Master Anya’s snare drum; lying beside Lexa in her tiny bed, listening to her breathe, breathing her in... THESE were the moments that mattered to Clarke. THESE were the moments where she had felt something.

And it wasn’t Finn’s charming smile or floppy hair that made her stomach tighten and twist inside of her. It wasn’t Bellamy’s goofy grin or solid biceps that made her blood rush and her heartbeat quicken and her cheeks flush. It was the memory of Lexa striking a ridiculous pose in her hideous orange safety vest; the image of Lexa lying in the soft light of morning, with her hair a wild mess against the pillow and the sleepiness still heavy in her green, green eyes; the thought of Lexa beside her, her soft skin warm against Clarke’s, her fingers woven into her own. These were the things that made Clarke nervous and tingly and dizzy with want. Because she wanted Lexa. Lexa... Lexa... Lexa.

These were the thoughts that bombarded Clarke at 2:14 in the morning. 

And at precisely 2:15 on that same morning Clarke blinked into the darkness and rolled onto her other side. And her teeth found her thumbnail. And as she clamped down upon it, she shoved these thoughts deep, deep down inside of her, into a place of darkness thicker than the blackness around her.

And she decided she would go out with Bellamy after all. And she decided she would hold his hand and she would let him walk her to the door and she would kiss him, hard and deep. Because Bellamy was a boy. (A HOT boy). And Clarke liked boys. (Especially HOT boys). And, ever since Kurt Samson had strolled into her kindergarten classroom with a dimple in one cheek and dark hair that curled like a comma over his eyes, she had always liked boys. 

She had ALWAYS liked boys. And she ALWAYS would.

And at 2:16 in the morning, Clarke closed her eyes again and dug her face further into the pillow and willed Sleep to come for her; to steal her thoughts and leave his silence.


	39. Denial

Chapter 39  
Denial  
OR  
Playing the Awful, Awful Part of ‘Normal’

 

CLARKE

Clarke woke the next morning with only the vaguest recollection of all that had passed in her mind the night before. And she shoved the memories deeper inside until all that was left of them was an even more vague feeling of discomfort, like the mildest case of indigestion. 

And she went to school determined to announce to anyone who cared to listen, that she was now dating Bellamy Blake, who was, by anyone’s standards, the next best thing after Finn Collins. And when she passed him in the hallway after third period, she pushed him up against a locker and planted a kiss on his lips that was so enthusiastic, Bellamy had frozen in shock at first, his lips limp and slightly parted in surprise for a long awkward moment before pressing back into hers with a sloppy hunger perhaps even more enthusiastic than her own. And she had let his tongue delve into her mouth and wrestle with her own, all the while hoping to feel something. 

And when they had finally parted, Bellamy breathless and dizzy and Clarke more numb than anything else, Raven and Luna and Octavia were all staring at the two of them with expressions of mixed surprise and laughter and (primarily on Octavia’s face) disgust. And Lexa had disappeared. And that feeling of mild discomfort was back in Clarke’s stomach. But she ignored it and let Bellamy take her by the hand and walk her to her next class. And she tried her damnedest not to wonder where Lexa had gone. 

And thus began a period in Clarke’s life that in later years she would recall as her most duplicitous and perhaps most unhappy. Never since she had lost her father and been forced to leave her home behind and start a whole new life, had Clarke ever lived day to day with such duality, wearing fake smiles like accessories, pretending everything was fine or even ‘great,’ when really everything was wrong, wrong, wrong. On the outside, Clarke was a lovesick teenage girl with a boyfriend hotter than most, more popular than most, sweeter than most, and more loyal than all. But on the inside, Clarke was drowning in confusion and unhappiness and, most of all, a numb indifference towards it all. 

Just like in sixth grade, when she had tried her best to put on a smiley face for her mother’s sake, Clarke felt like she was playing a part, an actor running through her lines, responding to her cues. Only this time Clarke wasn’t just trying to fool everyone around her or even those closest to her. She was trying, most of all, to fool herself. And the denial ran so deep in her that the pain in her stomach constantly lingered, a reminder that something wasn’t quite right, but Clarke couldn’t ever say just what the problem was. And any time the truth of her situation, of her very existence, bubbled up (for instance when thoughts of Lexa popped into her mind during those idle moments in the shower or driving to school or lying in bed and waiting for sleep to come) Clarke shoved it back down as quickly as it arose and tried to distract herself until it passed.

And Clarke tried to fill her schedule up, spending more and more time with Bellamy, because it was in the moments of solitude that Clarke struggled the most with wandering thoughts and confusing, unpleasant feelings. And, noticing that the pain in her stomach intensified around Lexa, she avoided moments alone with her as much as possible, inviting Raven or Luna or Octavia to join them for study and homework sessions, and leaving almost immediately after Tae Kwon Do practice each evening now that Lexa just caught a ride home with Master Anya. 

And though deep down Clarke knew that she was purposefully avoiding alone time with Lexa, that she was purposefully avoiding alone time with HERSELF, such was her denial that she barely noticed her own designs. And though she had recognized that she and Lexa hadn’t been spending time together like they used to (not that that bothered Clarke or that thinking about that made the pain in her stomach so intense that at times she didn’t know whether she wanted to vomit or cry) Clarke reasoned that it was no big deal. She told herself that she was simply busy. (She was, after all, a teenager juggling AP schoolwork, Tae Kwon Do, and a new boyfriend). And, anyways, it seemed Lexa was particularly busy lately too. (She was, after all, a teenager juggling AP schoolwork, Tae Kwon Do, and work). 

Clarke and Lexa still saw each other at school every day and at practice every evening. And if something felt weird and awkward between them, that surely wasn’t Clarke’s fault. And THAT didn’t bother her either. And it certainly didn’t bother her that Lexa hadn’t thought to invite her over to study or just chill and watch a movie or hang out in weeks, because she probably would have been busy doing something with Bellamy anyways. And she DEFINITELY didn’t miss their sleep-overs, their laughter or their talks, whispering with Lexa in the darkness, or waking up beside her in the morning light. 

Because she had Bellamy to laugh with and talk with. Though, when she thought about it, Clarke and Bellamy didn’t spend much of their time together doing either of those activities. It was easier to let the blaring of the T.V. or theater screen fill the silences between them, and when the forced attempts at small talk became too unbearably uncomfortable, there was always the option of making out instead. 

And so it was that Clarke found herself squashed into the backseat of Bellamy’s beat up Toyota on a rainy Saturday night in May struggling to catch her breath under the weight of Bellamy and her own heavy conscience. Bellamy’s lips were smashing against Clarke’s hungrily, his kisses as sloppy as a crazed dog’s. And Clarke’s lips were struggling to keep up, moving against his out of a sense of duty, and growing more and more weary by the second. Bellamy’s kisses always did a number on her chapped lips and even her extra-strength medicating lip-balm couldn’t cope with the stress he put on it. She had just made out with him last night, and tonight the stinging was particularly bad, and part of Clarke wondered if Bellamy, in his wild fog of desire, would even notice if she just kept her own lips still and didn’t bother kissing back. 

Bellamy’s left hand was tangled in Clarke’s hair and he kept accidentally tugging at her scalp. His right hand, sweaty and clammy, had found its way under her shirt and was steadily creeping its way up to her breasts. Something, most likely the seatbelt buckle, was jabbing into the back of Clarke’s rib cage. Her left foot, wedged at a weird angle between the edge of the passenger’s seat and the door, was starting to tingle. And Bellamy’s kneecap was digging into the tender flesh of her thigh. 

But Clarke tried to ignore all of these things. And she told herself she was enjoying this. Because she was SUPPOSED to be enjoying this, wasn’t she? Any normal sixteen-year-old girl would want Bellamy’s lips on their own. (They wouldn’t be wondering how different this kiss might be if it were gentle and slow and deep, the way Clarke had definitely NOT imagined Lexa might kiss her). Any normal sixteen-year-old girl would want Bellamy’s strong, calloused hands on their body. (They wouldn’t be imaging soft, slender fingers like Lexa’s on their skin, which was definitely NOT what Clarke was dreaming about). Any normal sixteen-year-old girl would want this, all of this, and more.   
(With BELLAMY, that is, NOT with someone else whom she definitely WASN”T thinking about). 

And so, Clarke told herself she wanted this. Because that’s exactly what Clarke was... A NORMAL sixteen-year-old girl. 

But, normal or not, as Bellamy’s fingers crept back down the slope of Clarke’s tummy and started fiddling with her belt buckle, Clarke couldn’t pretend any longer. For the first time since that moment at 2:15 AM so many weeks ago, EVERY part of her was actually in agreement on something... She didn’t want Bellamy pulling at her belt buckle any more than she had wanted Finn pulling at it only so many months ago. And there was no pretending otherwise. 

Clarke stiffened, pushed Bellamy’s chest off of her with one hand, and snagged his groping fingers with the other. And just like Finn, Bellamy pulled away as if he had been stung. But unlike Finn, there was no anger in his eyes. Rather, there was remorse.

“I’m sorry, Clarke!” He muttered frantically. “I just got caught up in the moment... Caught up in you... I wasn’t trying to... You know I wouldn’t...” He took a deep breath to calm himself and pulled Clarke’s shirt down to cover her tummy properly. “I’ll never go any further than you want me to, Clarke.”

Bellamy’s eyes shone in the murky streetlight streaming through the window and Clarke could see the honesty in them. “I know.” She said, her voice almost apologetic. She had led Bellamy to this spot like a dog following blindly after a treat. She had been the first one to kiss him. She had let his fingers wander her torso before. She had never shown any discomfort, and it was only natural for him to keep exploring the boundaries. After all, any normal sixteen-year-old girl would have wanted him to.

“I know.” She said again. “It’s not your fault. I guess I’m just not... I’m sorry... I should go.” She finished awkwardly, pushing herself into a siting position and reaching for the door handle.

“No... I’M the one who’s sorry.” Bellamy said, pushing off of his knees and swiveling to sit beside her. “I went too far. I don’t want to ever push you into doing something you’re not comfortable with, Clarke.”

“I know.” Clarke said again. “Thanks, Bell.”

Bellamy reached out and took one hand in his. “Are we still OK?” He asked, nervously.

“Yeah.” Clarke replied, the answer blurting out of her automatically. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” Bellamy smiled shyly. “Because I’ve been meaning to ask you... And I was planning on getting you roses and taking you to dinner and all, but I only just managed to get the tickets today and I can’t wait any longer... So, I’m just gonna ask.” Bellamy paused for a nervous breath. “Clarke, will you go to the prom with me?”

“What?” Clarke asked, confused and surprised. “The Junior/Senior prom? We’re sophomores...”

“I know.” Bellamy chuckled. “That’s why I wasn’t sure I could get tickets. But one of the boys on my basketball team just broke his leg and his girlfriend’s collar bone in a freak tandem bicycling accident.” Bellamy beamed. “So he hooked me up for half the price.”

“Oh.” Clarke answered, wondering if she should congratulate him on his friend’s misfortune. She hesitated, still absorbing the prospect of going to Prom... Going to prom with BELLAMY. “Ummm... Wow... The prom... I mean... I wasn’t expecting... Isn’t it next weekend?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy answered, his grin falling into a small, nervous smile. “I know... It’s not a lot of time to prepare... But I was hoping...” Bellamy’s words trailed off and the smile drooped further and then disappeared altogether. “I understand if it’s too last minute for you.” 

“No.” Clarke answered, the guilt rising inside her at the disappointment on his face. “I mean... No, it’s not too last minute. Yes, I’ll go... Of Course I’ll go.”

“Great!” Bellamy exclaimed. 

“Yeah... Great.” Clarke echoed him, her brain still struggling to process the situation.

“Come on, Princess.” Bellamy smiled and Clarke tried her best not to cringe at the name. (Any normal sixteen-year-old girl would surely swoon at the title). “I’ll walk you to your door.”

As promised, Bellamy walked her the short distance of her driveway and waited until she was safely inside before zooming away and, as Abby was working late at the hospital, leaving Clarke home alone with nothing but her thoughts for company. And after the confusion of the night’s events, for the first time in weeks, Clarke was too weary to keep the thoughts at bay. 

Just as she had with Finn, Clarke felt dirty, like Bellamy’s fingers had marked her with so much more than just a bit of sweat. And a long, hot shower did nothing to ease the feeling that she was somehow deeply soiled, unclean. And the thoughts in her head had swirled round and round like the steam billowing up around her. 

‘I don’t want to ever push you into doing something you’re not comfortable with, Clarke.’ That’s what Bellamy had told her. And he had meant every word of it. But if Clarke was being honest, truly honest with herself, her WHOLE self, she wasn’t truly comfortable with ANYTHING she was doing with Bellamy. It wasn’t just his fingers pulling at her belt buckle or creeping into her bra. She wasn’t comfortable with holding his hand in the halls or sitting beside him in a theater or struggling through small talk over spaghetti and meatballs. Not because Bellamy wasn’t a great guy. Not because he had done something wrong. Any normal sixteen-year-old girl would be lucky to have Bellamy for a boyfriend.

But maybe... Clarke thought as the water dripped down her skin, nearly searing her with its heat. Maybe... Just maybe... Clarke WASN’T a normal sixteen-year-old girl after all. 

The thought popped into her head and Clarke tried to shove it back down into the depths of her, but this time, THIS time, the thought kept rising over and over again like one of those creepy inflatable clowns you can never knock down, no matter how hard you punch it in its ugly face. And she was tired, tired, tired of fucking fighting, fighting, fighting it. 

And the tears rolling down her cheeks burned more fiercely than the shower water as Clarke finally accepted that maybe, maybe, maybe she wasn’t fucking normal at all.


	40. Complicated and Messy

Chapter 40  
Complicated and Messy  
OR  
Raven’s Advice... Lexa’s Advice... Abby’s Advice... 

 

LEXA

“I’m telling you, Lexa...” Raven begins, yet again. I swear, for how naturally intuitive Raven is, she sure never knows when to shut up. “She doesn’t want to go to the prom with Bellamy.”

I pull my nose out of my copy of Macbeth so that I can roll my eyes at Raven properly. I don’t want to hear this again. “Clarke’s old enough to decide what she does or doesn’t want, Rae. If she didn’t want to go with Bellamy, then why the hell would she say, ‘yes?’

“The desire to protect his fragile male emotions?” Raven suggests. Of course she has an answer. She always has an answer. “If she said ‘no’ to him, he would be crushed and Clarke’s too congenial to risk that.”

“Oh and I suppose she’s been spending every freakin’ free second of her time with him the past two months for the same reason? To be NICE.”

“Hey... Stop rolling your eyes at me, Lexa.” Raven scolds me. “It’s infantile. And no... I never said that was the original reason she started dating him. It’s simply one of the reasons she’s still with him.” 

“ONE of the reasons.” I sigh, rolling my eyes again. “Could another be that maybe... MAYBE... She actually really does WANT to be with him?”

“No.” Raven answers flatly, ignoring my sarcasm. 

“All evidence points to the contrary, Raven. I thought you were a scientist...”

“I am.” Raven answers. “A fucking good scientist. Good enough to realize when the data has been falsified.”

“What are you talking about? The data is simple. She’s been seeing him for over two months. All she ever wants to do is spend time with him. Or maybe you haven’t noticed them holding hands in the halls and making out against the lockers...” I spit the words. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It hurts too much.

“Of course I’ve noticed that.” Raven Answers. “I’ve also noticed that the whole thing is a complete ruse on Clarke’s end. Or maybe YOU haven’t noticed that she’s gone out of her way to make sure we all notice...”

“What are you talking about?” I sigh again. “You think she’s just trying to make everybody THINK she likes him when she actually doesn’t? Why the hell would she do that? It makes no sense.”

“Actually, it makes perfect sense.” Raven proclaims and I just shake my head and try to pull my mind back into Shakespeare. It’s much easier to study the drama of Lady Macbeth’s life than my own. But Raven isn’t finished. And try as I may to drown out her voice with Shakespeare’s words, the foolish part of me... The part that wants to believe Raven’s ridiculous theories more badly than I could ever express... Can’t help but listen.

“Hear me out, Lexa.” Raven starts. “I’ve grown up around double-faced people my whole life. In the Latino culture, women are veritable masters of duplicity long before our quincineras. It’s part of our culture, like learning how to make proper tamales. For example, when my aunt Paula comes to Christmas dinner every year, my mother and my aunt Marta always swoon over her enchiladas and tell her how great she looks and how beautiful her daughter, my crazy cousin Lupe, has become based on her facebook pictures. Then, as soon as Paula packs up her leftovers and disappears for another year, they turn to each other and start gossiping about how they couldn’t believe her enchiladas could be even more awful than last year, and how she’s put on another twenty pounds since last Christmas, and how my mom heard Lupe couldn’t make it because she was pregnant and trying to keep it secret and how Marta heard that the truth was that Lupe couldn’t make it because she was locked up in juvie again. And...”

“OMG!” I sigh, sounding like Octavia in my impatience. “Does this train of thought have a caboose, or what? What does any of this have to do with anything?”

“My point is...” Raven continues. “I recognize duplicity when I see it. Clarke isn’t happy with Bellamy. She’s pretending. She’s been pretending from the very beginning.”

“Again.” I sigh. “Why the hell would she do that?”

“Pressure to conform to social norms?” Raven suggests. “Combined with a deep denial of her emotions triggered by fear of confronting the reality of her internal desires...”

“What?” I say, frowning at Raven in complete confusion. “This sounds like a bunch of psychobabble bull. What does any of that even mean?”

“I mean,” Raven explains. “It’s my belief that, just before she started throwing herself at Bellamy, you know... around the time that Clarke was spending an awful lot of time with you, calling you up late at night to cry about boys, showing up late to school dressed in your clothes, falling asleep in your lap...” She raises her eyebrows at me, pausing long enough to make my cheeks catch fire. 

“Clarke had the realization,” Raven continues. “That maybe she LIKED waking up in your lap, that maybe she didn’t want to just be friends with you anymore, and she completely freaked out. So, to convince all of us, and most of all, HERSELF, that she wasn’t... Well... Into a girl... She started making out with the first available boy who just happened to be in love with her. And she distanced herself from you for good measure. And she’s been playing that game ever since. And I’m not sure whether or not she even realizes it. But either way, it’s making her miserable.” 

I consider Raven’s words. Raven is logical, smart, observant, and nearly almost right. And I want to believe her. I want to. I want to. I want to. But I can’t. Because over the weeks I’ve been struggling with accepting the fact that Clarke isn’t like me. She isn’t... (Like Raven, I still can barely say the word)... Gay. She likes boys. She likes Bellamy. And it hurts every single day, but I’m trying to accept that Clarke is with Bellamy. I watched Clarke running around with Finn. Now I watch her with Bellamy. And after him I will have to watch her with some other boy. She’ll never want me. And I have to believe that. If I listen to Raven... If I get my hopes up all over again and she’s wrong... 

“It’s quite a theory, Raven.” I sigh. “Elaborate, really. But, there’s a few holes in it. Clarke never does ANYTHING just because it’s the ‘normal’ thing to do. She’s never been afraid to be herself. I don’t think she gives a damn what anyone else thinks.”

“This isn’t like the time she decided to wear all orange on St. Patrick’s Day, insisting that orange was as important a color on the Irish flag as green, Lexa.” Raven argues. “It isn’t like the time she signed up for a talent show and broke boards while singing ‘The Eye of the Tiger.’ Coming out to everyone... Even coming out to just yourself... That’s a HUGE thing for some people. It took my aunt Clara years.”

“Just how many aunts do you have?” I interrupt her.

“Six.” Raven answers, tilting her head in thought. “No, wait... Make that seven. No... Eight. Yeah... Eight.” She says, still looking uncertain. “ANYWAYS... What I was saying... Coming out... Accepting who you are... It can be terrifying. Not everyone’s as strong as you, Lexa.”

The words are a lie. Clarke is brave. I am a coward.

“Clarke is stronger than I am.” I argue. “She always has been.”

“No... She’s not.” Raven says back. And I can only frown in skeptic disbelief at the words. “She’s not as strong as you. None of us are.”

“I didn’t come out to anyone.” I argue. “You and Master Anya just figured it out on your own.”

“Course we did. We’re intelligent.” Raven shrugs. “But my point is that you’re not afraid of who you are, Lexa. Even if you haven’t told everyone yet, tell me... If Clarke wanted to hold your hand in the halls tomorrow, would you let her?”

“Of course.” I answer without a second’s hesitation.

“And if she tried to kiss you, would you care that everyone else was watching?”

“No.” I answer. “Not at all.”

Truth is, Clarke could push me up against the lockers in front of the entire student body, staff, school board, the principal, AND the PTA, and I wouldn’t care one bit that anyone was watching us. In fact, I’m fairly certain that if Clarke ever kissed me, the entire world would melt away, if only for one surreal, perfect moment.

“Like I said,” Raven repeats. “You’re not afraid of who you are. Because you’re strong. You’re only afraid of losing Clarke’s friendship if you tell her the truth. When clearly it’s the exact opposite case. You might lose her if you never tell her. I’m telling you... She wants you. She’s just terrified.” 

“I don’t know, Rae.” I shake my head, Doubt and Hope erecting battlelines within me. “I know you’re always right... But I think you might be wrong on this one. Clarke is with Bellamy and I am alone. End of story. Now, can we please get back to work?” I bury my face back into the book, but the words on the page are blurry and I can’t seem to make my eyes focus on them.

“You need to tell her.” Raven says, burying her own nose back into her own book. “She needs to know you want her before she can admit she wants you too.”

“Or not...” She shrugs, pausing dramatically to flip a page. “I suppose you can just let the two of you go on being miserable together, apart. Your life... Your story... Your choice whether you want it to end like a damn Shakespearean tragedy. But, personally I’ve always preferred the comedies.” 

And with another dismissive shrug, Raven finally shuts up. But now the noise in my head is so much worse.

 

***...***

Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. 

It’s been over two months. TWO MONTHS since the last time I stood here like an idiot staring at the chipping paint on Clarke’s front door, trying to muster the courage to knock. And again, my fist is clammy and shaky and insubordinate, refusing to knock no matter how many times I order it to.

Raven’s words are still echoing in my mind. And I have no idea what the hell I am doing here or what the hell I am planning to say when Clarke finally opens this door. And Clarke isn’t expecting me. She didn’t invite me over. She hasn’t invited me over in weeks and weeks and weeks. And she probably doesn’t want me here. But I am here, anyways. And I can’t bring my feet to turn me around and walk me out of this whole situation any more than I can bring my fist to knock. 

And so, I continue to stand here like an idiot. And I don’t know how many minutes pass. All I know is that it feels like an eternity. And it feels like no time at all. And I finally, finally, finally knock.

Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls.

The door creaks open and I feel my mouth fall open right along with it. Clarke is standing before me in a dress (a gown really) the blue-gray of a stormy sea. The dress is strapless, the snug chest seemingly held in place by some kind of witchcraft and its skirt flowing in elegant loose satin waves from her hips to her calves. Her hair is loose and messy and her feet are bare and her eyes are glowing a sharper blue than her dress and she is, in this moment, one of the absolute most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“Lexa?” She says, surprised. And she blushes slightly, apparently embarrassed to be seen in her dress, though how she could possibly be embarrassed of her beauty is beyond me. 

I close my gaping mouth and swallow hard, now blushing myself. And I try to form words, but it seems I’ve forgotten how. 

“What are you doing here?” She asks, confused.

“I uhhh...” I stammer. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Even if I HAD had a plan before I knocked on her door, at the sight of Clarke in this dress, it would have flown from my mind right along with my ability to form cohesive thoughts. “I... Uhhh...”

Clarke blinks at me, waiting. After another long string of ‘I’s’ and ‘uhh’s’ she mercifully speaks again. “Did you want to come in?”

I manage to nod and follow her inside, expecting to head to the living room. But she leads me upstairs to her room instead. A messy pile of mismatched high-heels and sparkly flats sits in the middle of her bed. 

“I’m trying to figure out which shoes go best with my dress.” Clarke explains. “Figured the only way to know for sure was to try them on while actually wearing the dress.”

“Right, that makes sense.” I manage to mutter as Clarke grabs an armful of clothes off the floor and heads towards the bathroom.

“Hold on... I feel kinda ridiculous in this.” Clarke admits. “I’m gonna change real quick.”

I want to tell her she sure doesn’t LOOK ridiculous. Clarke is always, always, ALWAYS beautiful. But in that dress she’s absolutely stunning. And I want to tell her that too. But all I manage is another small nod. And I perch myself awkwardly on the edge of her bed while she disappears down the hall, leaving me to hyperventilate in her absence.

Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. Fudging nut-balls. WHAT am I doing here? I have no effing clue. And I’m half ready to just run from the room and back down the stairs and out the door when I hear Clarke emerge from the bathroom. And now my only option for escape is to leap through her window and ninja-roll my ass off her rooftop.

“This is a lot better.” Clarke says, reentering the room wearing loose jeans and a purple knit top. And she still looks beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. She hangs her dress carefully in her closet and I can’t stop myself... The words come pouring out of me like vomit. 

“So... You’re really going to the prom?” I ask. 

“Yeah.” Clarke shrugs. 

“With him? Bellamy?” God... I’m so stupid. Vomit. Vomit. Vomit.

“Yeah, of course. Who else would I go with?”

“Right. Yeah, of course.” I mumble, repeating her words. And I should stop here. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. “And you... You know... WANT to go with him?”

“Would I be going with him if I didn’t want to?” Clarke asks, frowning at me in confusion at the stupidity of my questions. But, that stupid foolish part of me that keeps replaying Raven’s words in my head over and over again can’t help but notice that she never actually answered the question.

“What’s going on, Lexa?” Clarke asks. “Do you not want me to go with him? Is that why you are here? To try to talk me out of it?”

I can’t read Clarke’s expression. I wish Raven were here to decipher it for me. Her blue eyes are ablaze. But I can’t tell if it’s hope or anger or weariness or something else that shines from them. All I know is that I am melting under them. 

And I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know what to say. Why AM I here? Did I come to talk her out of it? Did I come to pronounce my love for her and plead for her to leave Bellamy for me? Did I come to give her my blessing over her relationship with Bellamy? Did I come just because I missed her? Couldn’t stop thinking about her? Couldn’t stand another minute apart from her?

I don’t know why I came. But I wish I hadn’t.

“No.” I finally speak. “I just... I know we haven’t really talked since you started dating Bellamy. And I... I just... I just wanted to say.” I pause, trying to put my thoughts into words. “I wanted to say that I want you to be happy, Clarke.” I finally sigh. “That’s it. I just want you to be happy.” 

I push myself onto my feet and head for the door, blushing and feeling somehow both lighter and heavier at the same time. 

“Lexa...” Clarke calls after me and I pause at the edge of her room. 

“Yes?”

Clarke stares at me with an intensity that seems to hover in the very air around me, like a palpable thing I could reach out and touch. “Can you give me a reason I shouldn’t be with Bellamy?” She asks.

I know Bellamy is a good guy who genuinely cares about her. And the only reason I could give her is the one I cannot bring myself to speak. I could tell her now. I could. But it would be selfish of me. 

“You should wear the strappy black ones.” Is all I say, nodding towards the pile of shoes on her bed, summoning all of my strength to pull my lips into the smallest of smiles. And then I turn my back and walk away. 

 

***...***

CLARKE

 

“Hey, Hun.” Abby’s voice made Clarke jump. She had been sitting at the kitchen counter lost in thought and hadn’t heard Abby come in. She pulled her eyes from Sebastian’s beady glass ones and focused them on her mother standing before her in dirty scrubs, struggling to stifle a massive yawn.

“You’re up early.” Abby commented, confused. “It is SATURDAY, right? Or is it a school day?”

“No, it’s Saturday.” Clarke answered. “I just... I couldn’t sleep. Want some coffee? I just brewed some.”

“I already had three cups this morning.” Abby answered. “It was a long night. Still...” She smiled, snatching the pot and pouring a mug.

“Uhhh... Is it supposed to be ICED coffee?” She asked, taking a sip and immediately spitting it back into her cup.

“What?” Clarke replied. “It should still be hot. I swear I just brewed it.” She tested a sip from her own mug sitting on the counter before her, long forgotten. Abby was right... It wasn’t even lukewarm. It was awful. How long had she been sitting here?

Abby eyed Clarke, apparently wondering the same exact thing. She dumped her mug in the sink, snagged two glasses from the cupboard and the OJ from the fridge and pulled up a stool next to Clarke.

“Something on your mind, Hun?” She asked, handing Clarke a glass. 

Clarke took a long sip, wondering how to answer. Yes, there was something on her mind. There was A LOT on her mind. In fact, her mind was whirling like a fucking F5 tornado, her thoughts stormy, ugly, destructive, and powerful. But she wasn’t sure whether or not she wanted to discuss them with anyone right now, let alone her mother.

She could shrug and deny and make up some excuse to escape this whole situation. She could pretend like she wasn’t in the middle of a (what do you call it when a 16-year-old goes through a midlife crisis?) teenage-life crisis? It wasn’t as if she was currently questioning the very core of her existence, everything she had always assumed was the truth of who she was and what she wanted. It wasn’t like she was busy mulling over all of her recent mistakes or struggling to imagine a future in which she might ever be happy. 

“Let me rephrase that.” Abby spoke. “I know there is something on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Clarke sighed. Even if she did, she wouldn’t know where to begin.

“Is this about Finn?” Abby asked. “Or the new guy you’ve been spending so much time with? Or... Maybe...” She paused, her gaze boring into Clarke like a drill, cutting through flesh and into her very marrow. “Lexa?”

“What do you mean?” Clarke asked, surprised.

“Well... You two have practically been fused together at the hip since sixth grade, and I couldn’t help but notice I haven’t seen much... Or really ANY... Of her in weeks. What happened between you two?”

“Its... Complicated.” Clarke answered.

“Complicated.” Abby repeated with a small chuckle. “Yep... That sounds about right. It always IS complicated, isn’t it? I reckon it’s supposed to be. That’s how you know it’s real; it’s worth fighting for.”

“That’s how you know that WHAT’S real?” Clarke asked, not following. “What are you talking about, Mom?”

Abby gave Clarke a small, knowing smile. “Have I ever told you the story of how your father and I met?”

“You met him when you were in Med school.” Clarke shrugged, completely confused about what that had to do with anything.

“Right... But that’s just one little piece of the story.” Abby answered. “Yes, I was in Med school. Almost done with my residency, in fact. When one day your father came in with a broken ankle, wearing nothing but a pair of obnoxious lime-green swim trunks, a bright yellow fanny pack, knee-high checkered socks, and scuffed knee and elbow pads he hadn’t bothered to remove during the ambulance ride. Apparently he had taken a bad spill while roller-skating down at the pier.” She chuckled, shaking her head at the memory.

Clarke still had no idea where Abby was going with this story. But she was now enraptured, listening with a small smile on her face at the image of her father skating around like the emotionally unstable offspring of a beach-bum and a hippie.

“He had paint all over his fingernails.” Abby continued. “And a nasty burn on his palm he said he’d gotten making pancakes. And he was so... Well, half an hour into his consultation, I was already falling for him. Falling hard. Problem was... I was already dating someone at the time.” Abby admitted.

“David Smithey.” She continued. “The ideal guy... Handsome, charming, well-to-do. He drove a Lexus and owned a four-bedroom house just outside the city and had a Lab named Fido and a perfectly manicured front lawn. And he was a surgeon... A top surgeon.”

“But what he DIDN’T have,” Abby sighed. “Was a sense of humor or a single spontaneous bone in his body. And I had already been dating him for almost two years when I met your father. Two of the most boring years of my life, suddenly interrupted by a chance encounter with the funniest, warmest man I’d ever met.”

“And so, what did I do?” Abby asked, not waiting for an answer. “Did I dump the doctor and date the clumsy, roller-skating, pancake flipping, artist? Of course not. I stayed with the doctor. Why? Because he was what I had always thought I wanted. What I always thought I was SUPPOSED to want. Safety, security, stability...”

“And I avoided your father, speeding off in the other direction whenever I ran into him when he came in for his physical therapy sessions. And I tried to ignore the smiles he flashed me. Because I couldn’t fall for a struggling artist. What would my family think? What would my colleagues think? I just... I couldn’t. So I tried to convince everyone I was happy with the doctor. I tried to convince MYSELF I was happy.”

“Well... The story can’t end there.” Clarke commented after Abby paused for a long moment, sipping at her juice absently. “I mean... Obviously, I was born. So... What happened?”

“After a few of the most miserable months of my life,” Abby continued. “I finally faced the truth of the matter. I wasn’t in love with the doctor. I was in love with the IDEA of him. And I would never be happy with him. And that wasn’t fair to either of us. So I left him.”

“A few weeks later I ran into your dad in the hall. It was his last therapy session and he refused to leave the building without getting my number first. He insisted, as a thank you, that I let him take me out just once. And you know where he took me for our first date? Rollerskating at the pier.” Abby laughed. “And I realized that life with him wouldn’t be simple and pre-cut and planned. It would be messy and full of spontaneity and laughter. It wasn’t at all what I had thought I wanted. And I knew it would be complicated. But I finally realized what I had known deep down for months... It was exactly what I wanted.”

“Leaving the comfort and safety of the life with a surgeon... Taking a chance with your father... Was one of the scariest decisions I ever made. It was also one of the best.” Abby finished.

Clarke blinked at her, unsure of how to respond. 

“I told you that story because watching you these last few months...” Abby continued. “Well, you’ve reminded me of those months I spent with the surgeon trying to convince myself that I was happy. You may not think I’m around enough to notice these things, but you’re my daughter Clarke, I can tell when you are miserable. This new guy you’ve been seeing... He doesn’t light you up like new love ought to. You’re going to the prom with him tonight and you don’t seem one bit excited. You know... I don’t even think you’ve ever mentioned his name to me.” She paused, thoughtfully.

“But Lexa, on the other hand,” She continued. “Well... Maybe the situation isn’t as complicated as you think it is, Clarke. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Clarke stammered, dropping her head into her hands and flopping the whole mess of herself against the counter top. “I’ve been... Pushing her away. And now, I just... I’ve made a mess out of everything.”

“Surely not of EVERYTHING, Clarke.” Abby said, placing a palm gently on her back and rubbing little circles between her shoulder blades the way she used to do when Clarke was little. “Remember... It’s supposed to be complicated. It’s supposed to be messy.”

“What is?” Clarke asked again.

“Love, Clarke.” Abby chuckled. “Love.”

There it was... The terrifying four letter word Clarke had been avoiding for months. And Abby had just spoken it like it was no big deal, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Clarke shot back upright and stared at Abby, surprised.

“Don’t look so shocked, Hun.” Abby laughed. “I am your mother, after all. I know you. I know when you’re happy and when you’re just pretending to be. I know you.” She repeated. “And I love every single part of you, Clarke.” She added, wrapping one arm around Clarke’s shoulders.

Clarke was speechless. She felt like she barely knew herself. And here was her mother speaking truths about her that Clarke had been struggling, struggling, struggling to keep hidden from everyone, especially herself. Clarke was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that she might not be as normal as she had always assumed she was. And she was sure that everyone around her would be disappointed if they found out the truth of who she really was deep inside. But here was her mother, calling her out as being different. And she didn’t seem disappointed at all. Not even a little bit. 

As if Abby could read her mind, she spoke, “And in case you haven’t noticed... I’m OK with it, Honey.” She insisted. “I practically consider Lexa a part of the family already anyways. Truth is, I’VE missed having her around too. And I’ve missed hearing the two of you laughing like idiots in the other room. The person you are when she’s here, Clarke... Well, sometimes I see your father in you most when she’s around. You have his grin.” She smiled almost sadly. “And the same goofy glint in your eyes.” She chuckled.

And again Clarke didn’t know how to respond. It was one of the best compliments she had ever received. And it made her swell with happiness and sorrow and longing. She missed her father. And she missed her best friend.

“Now...” Abby continued. “This mess you’ve made of things. Let’s see if we can’t find a way to fix it.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Clarke sighed, burying her face in her hands again. “She doesn’t want me.”

“What?” Abby asked, genuinely surprised. “You’ve told her?”

“Practically.” Clarke moaned. “I mean... I asked her if she could give me a reason why I shouldn’t be with Bellamy. She knew what I was asking. She knew. And she said, ‘no.’ She wants me to go to the prom with him.”

“She told you that?” Abby asked.

“Practically.” Clarke moaned again, feeling the tears creeping up the back of her throat like wildfire. “She thinks Bellamy can make me happy. And she doesn’t want me. And none of it matters anyway. It’s all a mess. A big fucking mess. And I can’t fix any of it.”

She wriggled out from under Abby’s arm, wishing she could burrow into her like she had when she was a child. And she pushed herself off of her stool and onto her feet, wishing she could crumple to the ground and melt into the floor. And she placed her glass gently in the sink, wishing she could shatter it against the porcelain into a million jagged, glittering pieces. 

“I’m going to the prom with Bellamy tonight.” She mumbled, wishing she could scream. “Because that’s what Lexa wants.”

And before Abby could stop her, she bounded up the stairs and through her door and out her window. And she crept along the shingles to her favorite spot and sat there in the cheerful morning sunshine, wishing it were raining. And she let the tears fall from her eyes one-by-one, wishing she wasn’t alone; wishing more than anything else, she had Lexa beside her.


	41. Prom Night's Alright for Fighting: Round 1

Chapter 41  
Prom Night’s Alright for Fighting: Round 1  
OR  
The Bastard, the Saint, and the Drunk

CLARKE

‘Ding-Dong.’ The bell sounded.

“Well, shit.” Clarke mumbled to herself, tucking her clutch beneath her arm and reaching for the doorknob. “Here we go.”

And she plastered the smile onto her face and swung the door open.

“Wow, Clarke. You’re beautiful!” Bellamy exclaimed, standing before her looking dashing in a dapper black suit fastened over a black shirt and tie. It was black on black on black and Clarke was surprised at how classy the overall effect was. Bellamy looked like he had just stepped off of the cover of a GQ magazine, save for the goofy, excited grin on his face.

“Thanks.” Clarke replied, pulling the corners of her lips wider, until her cheeks strained with the effort. “You too. I mean,” She corrected. “You look... Handsome.”

“Here, this is for you.” Bellamy beamed, pulling a little plastic container from behind his back. He pried it open and pulled out a corsage of crimson roses and baby’s breath, then snagged Clarke’s hand and slipped it onto her wrist. 

“It’s gorgeous.” Clarke said. Because that was what she was supposed to say, right? Never mind that red roses were cliche. Never mind that the crimson hue clashed terribly with the soft silvery-blue of her dress.

Bellamy lifted her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on it’s back. “Not as gorgeous as you. Now, come on, Princess... Let’s go.”

And as Clarke let him lead her down the walkway, she felt her jaw drop at the sight of the car waiting for them.

“You rented a limo?” She exclaimed, wondering where Bellamy had come up with the money for tonight.

“Yeah.” Bellamy laughed, reaching for the back handle. “I figured we ought to do this right, you know? But... I couldn’t afford it on my own, so...” 

“Hey, Clarke! Wow... You look beautiful.” This time the compliment was unexpected and Clarke felt her cheeks reddening under Lincoln’s friendly smile.

“Hot damn, Griffin!” Octavia laughed. “What do you know? Lincoln’s right for once. You DO look beautiful.”

“Thanks, guys.” Clarke chuckled awkwardly, climbing onto the leather seat as Bellamy shoved his way in beside her. She was seated across from Lincoln and Octavia, divided from them by a long gap of open space and a third bench of seats running lengthwise that was occupied by a third couple Clarke didn’t recognize who were already too busy making out to acknowledge her presence.

Clarke pulled her eyes from the mystery couple and smiled at Lincoln and Octavia, surprised by how excited and relieved she was to have them for company. “You guys look great too! I mean... Brangelina’s got nothing on you two.”

It was true. Lincoln, beefy and brawny as ever, looked downright smashing in his classic black suit, white shirt and crimson tie. And Octavia was dressed in a long, tight red dress that hugged her lean body so perfectly it almost looked like the shimmery material had been painted on. Instead of a corsage, she had a single white lily fastened to her wrist. 

“Lincoln... you managed to get her into a dress!” Clarke teased. “And O... You got him to wear a shirt.”

“Yeah... At least for now.” Octavia replied, rolling her eyes and turning her sassy gaze to Lincoln. “If you take your shirt off without my permission... That’s it. The night’s ending early.”

“Alright.. Got it.” Lincoln chuckled, leaning into her seductively and planting a kiss on her cheek. “I won’t take anything off without your permission. Unless of course...” He paused turning his attention lower, moving his lips along the sharp edge of her jaw to her neckline. Octavia didn’t respond to his advances. But she made no move to stop them either. “You WANT me to end the night early...”

“Oh come on, guys.” Bellamy cut in, making a face. “Big brother over here, remember?”

“Oh, don’t ‘big brother’ me, Bell.” Octavia rolled her eyes again. “First of all, you’re TWO minutes older than me-”

“I’m a YEAR older, O.” Bellamy interrupted.

“You’re TWO minutes older.” Octavia repeated as Lincoln and Clarke exchanged chuckles, shaking their heads at the bickering siblings. No matter how much time passed some things just never changed. 

“SECONDLY,” She continued before Bellamy could retaliate. “YOU’RE one to talk... You two make out in front of me all the time.”

“Yeah well, were SAVAGES.” Bellamy laughed. “But at least we aren’t complete ANIMALS like those two.” He motioned towards the couple still making out, lost in their own world. “Yo, Murph... You and Emori comfortable? Can we do anything for you? Maybe turn down the heat?”

The boy didn’t bother to remove his face from his girlfriend’s. He just lifted one hand towards Bellamy and closed all five fingers but one, making Bellamy laugh harder. 

“So, Lincoln... How the hell did you get O to agree to come to the prom with you?” Clarke asked, curious. As far as she knew, Octavia was still pretending to have no interest in the gorgeous boy who followed her around like a massive, lovesick puppy. “Used some kind of voodoo love potion?”

“Love potion?” Lincoln scoffed. “Please! All I had to do was ask her.”

“Ask her?” Bellamy laughed. “More like BEG her.”

“There was no begging involved.” Lincoln protested. “OK... There may have been a little bit of begging...”

“And a whole lot of lilies.” Bellamy added. “He’s been leaving a single white lily on our doorstep every morning for the past four weeks.”

“Hey...” Lincoln blushed. “Whatever it takes to get the girl, right?”

“The lilies had nothing to do with it.” Octavia insisted, though Clarke could see right through her. She was as smitten with Lincoln as he was with her. “I merely realized one day that as a sophomore, I couldn’t get a ticket on my own. So it was go with Lincoln or don’t go at all.” 

“And since I had tickets-” Lincoln cut in.

“And no shame whatsoever-” Bellamy added.

“Here we are.” Octavia finished with a shrug.

“Here we are.” Lincoln echoed her with a lovesick grin. “Again... Whatever it takes, right? Whatever it takes.”

 

***...***

“So, are you going to ask me to dance, or what?” Octavia scolded Lincoln, pushing up out of her chair and sauntering off towards the dance floor without even waiting for his response. Lincoln leaped from his chair like a kid who had just spotted a bouncy house in the corner and followed after her. And suddenly Clarke and Bellamy were alone with nothing but two plates of half-eaten chocolate cake and florescent colored frosting between them. 

Clarke stared out at the dance floor filled with awkward kids moving awkwardly in their fancy, awkward outfits. Already a small circle of empty space surrounded Lincoln and Octavia. The pair of them were dancing so wildly the kids around them had backed away out of fear of injury. 

“So... Umm... You wanna dance?” Clarke asked. If she was stuck here, she might as well try to have some fun. And she’d always loved dancing, ever since she was a kid and her father would let her stand on his feet as he twirled her around the living room. 

“Actually... I was thinking maybe we could go for a walk?” Bellamy suggested. “I heard they decorated the quad outside with all kinds of lights and streamers and stuff.”

“OK.” Clarke shrugged, putting on another fake smile. Anything was better than just sitting here in her uncomfortable plastic chair and her uncomfortable dress and this uncomfortable silence.

Clarke allowed Bellamy to take her by the hand and lead her through the gym’s double doors and out into the quad. He had been right. The entire quad was sparkling beneath strings and strings of fairy lights dangling from the trees and flickering in the bushes. The effect was more than beautiful. It was almost magical, like the stars had fallen right out of the heavens to linger amongst them. And Clarke couldn’t help but wish Lexa was here to see it. 

Bellamy led Clarke down the walk that she knew led to the cafeteria, though it seemed like a whole other world tonight. And Clarke struggled to take in the beauty around her as they walked. But within moments, the magic was obliterated by a gruff voice behind them, already raspy with drink. 

“Well if it isn’t Bastard Blake and the little goody-two-shoes bitch he stole?” Finn called from behind them. 

Bellamy pivoted on the spot, his grip on Clarke’s hand tightening almost painfully. “Clarke isn’t a bitch!” He growled. “And I didn’t STEAL her. She left you. And you’re drunk, Finn.”

“Ooohhh, you caught me, Officer Blake.” Finn laughed mockingly, throwing his hands in the air. “Why don’t you arrest me? String me up in a tree?” 

He lowered his hands and reached into the inside of his suit jacket, pulling out his usual flask and taking a slug. He tilted it towards Bellamy, offering him a taste. Then, when all Bellamy did was stare at him furiously, he held it out in Clarke’s direction.

“How about you, Saint Clarke? Care for a sip? Nope?” He laughed, taking another slug for her. “Didn’t think so.”

“Leave us alone, Finn.” Clarke warned.

“I don’t know why you two are looking at me like that.” Finn said, his words drawn out and just a little slurred by the alcohol in his system. “I’m just getting the party started a little early, is all. I mean... Have you seen it in there? If it weren’t for Gina blowing me in the bathroom, I’d call this whole night a total waste.”

“Gina?” Bellamy repeated, his voice torn between anger and confusion.

“Yeah.” Finn laughed, waving an arm casually as if to say ‘who knew, right?’ “I’m not usually one to go for someone’s sloppy seconds.” He continued. “But, I guess I’m not really one to turn down free blow-jobs either. I mean... Especially when someone’s so eager to give one. She practically begged me to let her-”

“You’re lying!” Bellamy growled. “Gina’s not like that. Don’t talk about her like that.”

Finn turned towards Clarke and made a face, raising his brows and nodding towards Bellamy. “Boy... Someone’s a little sensitive, huh?” 

“Leave us alone, Finn.” Clarke repeated. She knew Finn was just trying to rattle them, to rile them up. She had hurt his pride when she had left him, and the drunk Finn, the petty, jealous, paranoid Finn, was looking for revenge. But Clarke was done with letting this Finn affect her. She wasn’t angry or afraid. If anything, she was weary, just plain weary. 

But Bellamy, on the other hand, was nearly beside himself with anger. He had relinquished his hold on Clarke’s hand and was now clenching and unballing his fist, his fingers visibly shaking with rage.

“What’s wrong, Bella?” Finn continued his goading. “We were just having some fun. Didn’t mean anything. I’m sure Gina’s still willing to do you too if you ask nicely. I mean... I know it must be fucking HARD not getting any from Saint Clarke over here. If I were you, I’d be kicking my own ass for being such a dumbass to leave Gina for someone with fucking superglue between her thighs.”

“Or maybe that’s where all this built up frustration is coming from, huh, buddy?” He suggested. “I know if I couldn’t get her legs open, she sure as HELL ain’t spreading them for a pussy like YOU. I’m sure it’s not for lack of trying though, huh?” Finn winked at Bellamy. “How many rubbers you got on you tonight? Three? Four? You were always the optimist. It’s too bad you can’t return them for your money back. Don’t they charge extra for the special-made, extra-small ones? I wouldn’t know.” 

Bellamy’s fists were now fully clenched at his sides. He took a step towards Finn. “Leave, Finn.” He warned, his voice low and dangerous. “Before you make me do something we’ll both regret.”

“Relax, Bella.” Finn said, leaning against the sidewalk railing casually and taking another sip of whatever strong, dark spirit was possessing him. “You know? You used to be so much fun. You sure you don’t want a drink? Oh, that’s right... Saint Clarke wouldn’t approve. And she has got your little pussy whipped, hasn’t she?”

“I said, ‘Leave, Finn.”’ Bellamy said again, his nostrils flaring with ire.

“Why don’t you make me, Bastard?” Finn challenged, abandoning his casual air for the first time and squaring his chest towards Bellamy. 

“Come on, Bellamy.” Clarke said, tugging at his wrist. “If HE won’t leave, WE can.” 

Bellamy’s jaw muscles were twitching, his eyes fixed on Finn, practically burning with anger. He ignored Clarke.

“Let’s go, Bellamy.” Clarke urged again. 

“Better listen to your perfect little girlfriend, Bella.” Finn advised. “Before she gets her whip out. Really, I’m surprised SHE’S not the one wearing pants. YOU should be the pussy in the pretty little dress.”

Bellamy was seconds away from throwing a punch. Clarke could almost feel the anger rolling off of him like waves of heat. She could sense his self-control crumbling like a skyscraper in an earthquake, on the verge of collapse.

“Bellamy...” Clarke tugged on his wrist more fiercely until Bellamy finally yielded. He gave Finn one last look of utter contempt and then took Clarke by the hand and began to lead her past him, back towards the muffled sounds of music floating from the gym. Clarke followed after him, but a sudden sharp tug on her free arm pulled her to a stop.

“Did I say you could go, Princess?” Finn asked, his voice now an angry slur. “I’m fucking tired of watching you walk away from me.”

Finn’s fingers, thick and strong from years of gripping hockey sticks and footballs, were wrapped around Clarke’s wrist so tightly she could feel her pulse laboring beneath his grip. But she wasn’t afraid. Finn was larger, heavier, stronger than her. But she knew that didn’t matter. He was drunk and cocky and stupid. And within an instant, she already knew what she had to do. She would disable him, free herself from his clutches, and then simply continue walking away. But she decided to give him one last chance.

“Let me go, Finn.” She demanded in her most dangerous voice, selecting her target in case he refused. She would take him down with a kick to the knee. One well-placed kick to its side and his leg would snap like a wishbone on Thanksgiving. And in one second Finn’s potential athletic career would go up in smoke. Clarke knew it would destroy him. And for the sake of the sober Finn she had once thought she had loved, she was still hesitating. But she would do it in a heartbeat if she had to.

But Finn didn’t get the chance to release her. Before either of them had acted, a fist came flying past Clarke, colliding with the ridge of Finn’s cheekbone hard enough for Clarke to hear the crack of bones meeting. Finn’s fingers fell from Clarke’s wrist as he reeled backwards from the hit. And, whether from the force of Bellamy’s punch or the force of the liquor, Finn stumbled and fell to his knees, blood now trickling from the corner of the mouth that had won the school’s most-charming-smile-award two years running. 

Finn lurched forward onto his hands. He was clearly in no condition to fight. And Clarke reasoned that the fight was over as quickly as it had begun.

But apparently the boys disagreed. Bellamy stepped to Finn’s hunched side and threw a front-kick into his rib cage so that Finn fell from his hands to his elbows, groaning and struggling to suck in the air around him.

“Apologize.” Bellamy demanded, standing over him.

“Stop it, Bellamy.” Clarke called out. “He’s finished. Let’s just go.”

Bellamy ignored her. “Apologize.” He commanded again, driving his fancy black dress shoe into Finn’s side again. 

“I said, ‘Stop it, Bellamy!’” Clarke repeated, putting a hand on his shoulder to pull him away.

But Bellamy shrugged free of her, rearing his foot back, preparing to kick again. And Clarke, unable to believe what was happening, was now planning what take-down she would use on BELLAMY. But before Clarke could decide on a strike, Finn pushed off the ground with surprising force and, drunk as he was, shoulder-tackled Bellamy with the skill only a thousand football practices could drill into someone. Bellamy went flying backwards under Finn’s weight and the two crashed to the ground, now wrestling in the dewy grass. 

“Stop it, both of you!” Clarke shouted. “I said, ‘Fucking stop it!’”

But the boys were ignoring Clarke as passionately as they were fighting for her. And she watched in utter incomprehension as the two boys, each dressed to the nines in their rented suits and starched shirts and shiny dress shoes, wrestled, taking turns punching and kneeing and elbowing each other in a clumsy rage. 

The entire situation was absurd, surreal, like Clarke had suddenly been thrown into some B-rated, made-for-TV, movie where she was the center of some generic love triangle and this was the dramatic finale. Two boys literally fighting over her at her prom? Did it get any more cliche than this? All they needed now was an audience of jeering and cheering teenagers to come flooding down the walkway and surround them.

And the irony of the whole thing struck Clarke like a kick to the face. She was the center of this love triangle, the focus point. And yet she didn’t love either of these boys. They were fighting over HER. And yet, she didn’t want any of this. She didn’t want Finn fighting for her. She didn’t want Bellamy fighting for her. 

In this moment, there was only one person in the world who she wanted to fight for her. And that person wasn’t here. 

“Fuck it.” Clarke mumbled. She didn’t care who won the fight. She didn’t care about any of it. 

And she turned her back on the boys. And she turned her back on the gym’s double doors. And she walked casually down the path that led to the parking lot, fishing for her phone tucked away in her little black clutch.

“Raven?” She spoke when the ringing ceased. 

“Clarke?” Raven replied, confused. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the prom tonight?”

“I am.” Clarke answered. “Will you come get me?” 

“What? But it’s early.” Raven answered. “Aren’t you riding home with Bellamy? Didn’t he rent a fucking limo?”

“Just come get me, Rae.” Clarke replied. “Please.”

“What’s wrong?” Raven asked, still confused. “Did something happen? Are you OK?”

“Just come get me, OK?” Clarke asked again. “And bring your TKD uniform. I need to borrow it.”

“My uniform?” Raven asked, more confused than ever. “Why the hell do you need my Dobok? What are you doing?”

“Just bring it, Rae.” Clarke answered. “And your sparring gear too. Thanks. I’ll owe you one.” And she hung up and took a seat on the dirty curb, not giving a fuck about her dress. 

What was she doing? 

She was seeing clearly. For once, she could see everything fucking crystal clear.

What was she doing? 

How had Lincoln put it? ‘Whatever it takes.’ She was about to do whatever it fucking takes.


	42. Prom Night's Alright for Fighting: Round 2

Chapter 42  
Prom Night’s Alright for Fighting: Round 2  
OR  
Just a Few Issues to Work Out and What It’s Supposed to Feel Like

CLARKE

“Aden, your mom’s here.” Clarke called, stepping onto the mats and interrupting the match. “Go home. I’ll step in for you.”

“Clarke?” Lexa asked, dropping her fists in complete surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at the prom with... Bellamy.” As much as she tried to hide it, Lexa said the name like it tasted sour on her tongue. 

Practice was clearly over and Lexa and Aden had apparently just been doing some light stepping together to cool down. Lexa hadn’t even bothered to wear her helmet. Clarke snagged it from the corner and threw it hard at Lexa’s bright red chest. Of course Lexa caught it. Even surprised as she was, Lexa had the goddamn reaction skills of a ninja. 

Lexa clutched the helmet against her crimson hogu but didn’t put it on. “What’s going on, Clarke?” She asked, frowning in complete confusion.

“What does it look like?” Clarke spat at her, strapping her own (well.. Raven’s to be precise) helmet on over her perfect, partially braided, partly loose hair. She knew she looked ridiculous fighting with her perfect eye-shadow and glitter and painted lips. But right now she didn’t give a fuck about that either. “We’re fighting.”

“I’m not fighting you right now, Clarke.” Lexa answered. “What the hell’s the matter? Did something happen? Did Bellamy-”

“No.” Clarke cut her off. “This has nothing to do with Bellamy. Put your helmet on.”

Clarke gave Lexa the small informal bow they always exchanged before sparring and split into fighting stance. But Lexa still made no move. She just stood there, holding her helmet, flustered with confusion.

Clarke slid forward and threw a fast-kick and Lexa, jumping backwards in surprise, barely dodged it. Frustrated, Clarke followed with a cut-kick, double-kick combo and then a round kick to the backside. But Lexa, always a hare faster than Clarke, dodged each of Clarke’s advances, her sharp green eyes, wide with incomprehension, flickering back and forth from Clarke’s blue chest protector to her equally blue eyes.

“Fight back!” Clarke demanded as Lexa dodged blow after blow, sliding around the ring like a damn mosquito Clarke couldn’t swat. But Lexa had yet to throw a kick.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Clarke?” Lexa asked. “Why are you so pissed at me?”

Clarke didn’t bother to answer. Lexa had straightened her stance and dropped her heels while asking the question, and Clarke took the opportunity to throw a high round-kick that came so close to smacking Lexa across the face that Clarke actually felt her toenail graze Lexa’s nose.

“Whoa!” Lexa exclaimed. “Watch it!” 

“Put your fucking helmet on and fight back.” Clarke demanded. 

But Lexa tossed her helmet aside and jumped back into her fighting stance. And as soon as Clarke attacked again, moving forward with another fast-kick, Lexa slid quickly into Clarke’s space, dodging the blow by moving into the clinch. But instead of holding the clinch with her, Lexa suddenly snagged one of Clarke’s wrists in one hand while somehow twirling her around with the other. And before Clarke realized what was happening, Lexa had her in a perfect arm bar, Clarke’s left arm pulled painfully behind her back, between her and Lexa, her other arm pinned to her side by Lexa’s. As if this wasn’t bad enough, Lexa dug one heel into the back of Clarke’s knees until she dropped to the mats, kneeling in forced submission. 

“You cheated!” Clarke huffed, wriggling frustratedly. But there was no getting out of this. She was immobilized. All Lexa had to do was gently lift Clarke’s arm and Clarke would be flat on her stomach in an instant, begging for her release. 

“What the hell is going on, you two?” Master Anya’s voice rang out across the gym. 

“I have no idea, Master Anya.” Lexa answered. “She was attacking me for no reason.”

“Oh, there’s a reason.” Clarke growled.

“And just what might that be?” Master Anya asked. 

Clarke didn’t answer. She just stared down at the mats, the anger rushing through her blood like poison. But she was clinging to it. Because Clarke knew that just below the anger lied the hurt. And it was so much worse.

“Ok...” Master Anya replied, her voice flat and edged with just a hint of danger. “Well... It seems the two of you have some issues to work out.”

She disappeared from Clarke’s limited view and reappeared clutching two short, plastic straws. And Clarke couldn’t stifle the irritated groan that escaped her. 

“Fifty each.” Master Anya commanded. “All at once, or in sets... I don’t care. If you finish and you still have unresolved issues... Start again. If one hundred is still not enough, you two can mop the mats and then wipe down the mirrors. Then there’s the front windows to wipe and the front room to vacuum. If you haven’t caught on yet... Neither of you are leaving this dojang until whatever...” She paused, waving her hands over the two of them. “THIS is...” She continued. “Is fully taken care of. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Anya.” Clarke and Lexa groaned in unison.

Lexa finally released her hold on Clarke and Clarke shook out her arm and pushed herself to her feet, still staring down at the mats as she begrudgingly took the straw from Master Anya’s fist.

“What is this drill about, Clarke?” Master Anya quizzed.

“Practicing self-control, Master Anya.” Clarke grumbled in reply.

“What else, Lexa?” 

“Developing trust in our teammates, Master Anya.” Lexa muttered.

“Good.” Anya nodded. “Now, I suggest you two get started. I’ll be doing paperwork. And you know how much I detest paperwork. Do not test my patience.” She warned and she turned her back, walked across the mats, and disappeared around the corner.

“So...” Lexa started, placing her straw between her front teeth and doing her best to speak around it, so that her words were almost as slurred as Finn’s had been. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Clarke put her fists up and split her stance. “Like you don’t know why I’m pissed.” Clarke spat, turning on the spot and throwing a spinning hook-kick, the sole of her foot dragging against the end of Lexa’s plastic straw. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, there’s no point in me even telling you.”

“Oh, come on.” Lexa grumbled, pulling the straw from her mouth so she could speak clearly. “What are you, twelve?”

“Put your fucking straw back in.” Clarke commanded. “It’s still my turn. I have forty-nine more.” 

“No.” Lexa answered, putting a hand on her hip, sassily. “Not until you start talking and stop being so damn childish and ornery and-”

Lexa didn’t finish the sentence. She nearly choked instead as Clarke shoved her own straw between Lexa’s lips. 

“I’m mad at you...” Clarke started, pausing to throw her second kick. 

“Clearly.” Lexa mumbled as Clarke’s foot brushed her straw.

“Because...” Kick. “You let me...” Kick. “Go to the prom...” Kick. “With BELLAMY.” Kick.

“Hey!” Lexa protested, yanking her straw back out again after Clarke’s foot had nearly grazed her lips. “That one was too close! And what do you mean, I LET you go? It was YOUR idea to go with him.” The anger was finally, finally, finally starting to tinge the edges of Lexa’s voice. And Clarke was suddenly getting what she had asked for: a fight.

“And you didn’t do anything to try and stop me!” Clarke shouted back, putting her own hands on her hips and squaring off with Lexa.

“Of course I didn’t. Why would I? I thought you WANTED to go with him!” Lexa protested. “I was trying to be supportive!”

“I didn’t want to go with Bellamy!” Clarke shouted back. 

She felt like a blustering idiot. She had wanted a fight. She had done everything she could to pick it. But now that the shouting match was in full swing, she didn’t know what she was doing; what she had planned to say. The words were just exploding out of her without consideration or design. But her brain was no longer in control. Something deeper within her, the place of pain and longing, hurt and desire, was now in charge. 

“I don’t want BELLAMY!” She bellowed.

“Well you could have fooled ME!” Lexa shouted back.

Clarke had never seen Lexa lose control like this; never heard her raise her voice like this. And Clarke was feeding off of Lexa’s anger as much as Lexa was feeding off of hers. Clarke’s heart was racing. Her fingers were shaking. It was escalating all too fast. 

“All the times you ditched me so you could go spend your time making out with him.” Lexa shouted. “It was pretty damn clear what you wanted!” 

“I didn’t want BELLAMY!” Clarke yelled again.

“Then what the hell DID you want?” Lexa asked, desperation mixed with the frustration in her voice.

“I wanted you to...” Clarke started. She was flustered, absolutely flustered. “I wanted you to... To DO something. To SAY something. You just STOOD THERE.”

“What are you even talking about?” Lexa demanded, the frustration returning in full force.

“I asked you!” Clarke yelled back. “I asked you if you could give me a reason why I shouldn’t go with Bellamy! I asked you! And you just STOOD THERE!” She repeated.

“I thought you were in love with him!” Lexa choked out. “What the hell was I supposed to say?” 

“In love with HIM?” Clarke sputtered. “I wasn’t in love with HIM! How could you not see that? You said you wanted me to be happy! You really thought BELLAMY could ever make me HAPPY?”

Lexa was frowning in anger and confusion. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but Clarke cut her off again, shoving the straw back between her lips. Lexa huffed and tried to spit it out, but Clarke held it in place.

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAY...” Clarke paused again, struggling to find the words scrambling inside her mind, struggling to find a breath in this hot, thick, choking air. She turned and let another kick fly, smacking the straw with such force it went flying from between Lexa’s teeth.

“You were SUPPOSED to say you didn’t want me going with Bellamy.” Clarke said, her voice falling a notch, trembling slightly. She was moving past the anger and into the hurt now. But she was powerless to stop it. “You were SUPPOSED to say you didn’t want me to be with Bellamy AT ALL. Because you were SUPPOSED to say you wanted me to be... To be... To be with YOU.” Clarke finally sputtered. “You were SUPPOSED to WANT ME.”

“Clarke, I-” Lexa began, her voice dropping exponentially to the softest of volumes. But Clarke cut her off again, picking up the second straw and holding it out to her.

“No, Lexa. I’m not finished.” She said. Lexa took the straw obediently and held her tongue. The anger was no longer flashing in her eyes, the green flames giving way to green seas once again.

“I went to that goddamn prom because you told me I should.” Clarke said. “Because YOU didn’t want me. And Bellamy did. And I thought maybe SOMEHOW I could make that be enough; maybe I could learn to be happy with what everybody SAID would make me happy.”

Clarke was supposed to be kicking. She still had forty-three more to go. But the anger in her blood was dissolving, abandoning her, leaving her with nothing but the hurt. And her legs suddenly felt heavy, weak. She dropped her fists, all of the fight gone out of her.

“Finn was at the prom too.” She continued. “He was drunk and he started saying all of this shit and Bell was losing it. So I tried to walk away and Finn grabbed me and Bell attacked him.”

“Oh my god, are you OK?” Lexa asked, pulling the straw out of her mouth, her face now a picture of pure concern.

“OF COURSE I’m OK.” Clarke answered. “I didn’t need BELLAMY to fight for me. I didn’t WANT Bellamy to fight for me. I didn’t want FINN to fight for me...”

“I know.” Lexa cut her off in a small voice. “You fight for yourself.”

“No, Lexa.” Clarke sighed, wearily. Lexa still wasn’t getting it. She still didn’t understand. For once in her life Clarke WANTED someone to stand up and fight for her. She wanted someone to do whatever it takes for her. 

“Don’t you get it?” She asked. “The only person in the whole world who I wanted to fight for me wasn’t there! I wanted YOU to fight for me! We’re supposed to fight TOGETHER, remember? But you weren’t there. I didn’t have you by my side. I didn’t HAVE you.”

“Clarke,” Lexa answered, her voice small but steady; powerful, demanding to be heard. “You DO have me. Don’t you see? You’ve ALWAYS had me.” 

“No I haven’t.” Clarke said, taking a step towards her. And Lexa, apparently afraid that Clarke was about to reprimand her again, shoved the straw back into her mouth as Clarke spoke. “I haven’t had you. Not in the way I want you.”

And Clarke didn’t allow another second or word to pass between them. Her heart was racing faster than ever, her blood rushing through her like fire, like electricity, making every inch of her burn and tingle. And without another moment’s thought, she reached out and pulled the straw from Lexa’s lips and replaced it with her own lips.

Lexa was so startled by the kiss she jumped away like Clarke’s lips had burned hers. And Clarke pulled back, feeling her racing heart drop into her stomach like the heaviest of stones. She was crumbling inside, falling to pieces. 

Lexa still didn’t want her. Not like THAT.

Lexa was staring at Clarke with her vivid green eyes wide with disbelief, her beautiful plump lips parted in surprise. And Clarke was waiting for the apologetic words of rejection that would crush her, that would finish her off entirely.

But the words never came. In an instant, Lexa stepped into Clarke and smashed those beautiful lips into hers with such gusto Clarke nearly stumbled backwards from the force of it. Lexa’s kiss was deep and desperate, wild and hungry, and yet gentle and tentative, all at once. It was nothing like Bellamy’s or Finn’s; neither sloppy nor demanding; not cocky or assuming. And by the time they pulled apart, Clarke was as dizzy as if she had just taken one of Aden’s kicks to the temple.

“So THAT’S what it’s supposed to feel like.” She whispered, her voice filled with an almost reverent awe. 

Lexa was smiling at her nervously, her cheeks flushed a soft pink. “Was it... OK?” She asked and Clarke realized that this was the first time Lexa had ever kissed anyone; the first time she had ever BEEN kissed. And it seemed wrong to Clarke, because if anyone deserved to be held, to be kissed, to be cherished, it was the sexy, smart, kind, dorky, IRRESISTIBLE girl standing before her. 

“OK?” Clarke laughed. And she pulled Lexa into her again. OK was an understatement. Kissing Lexa was like drowning and breathing at the same time; like sinking and floating. It was like cannon-balling into a pool on a sweltering summer’s day; like flopping onto the grass after a sprint up Nutcracker Hill. It was like climbing under the covers and watching the snow fall; like chomping down a warm, buttery breadstick after weeks of cutting weight, after hours and days and an eternity of peristalsis. It was like-

“Ahem.” The sound of a throat clearing sounded in Clarke’s ears like distant thunder, and she and Lexa jumped apart like sparks. Master Anya was standing at the edge of the mats wearing a crooked smile like she was holding back the laughter. Clarke had completely forgotten she was in the room, or the building, or the world, for that matter. But now she realized, with a jolt of embarrassment, that Anya had surely heard every word that had passed between her and Lexa. After all, they hadn’t exactly been whispering.

Clarke shot Lexa a nervous look, unsure of what to do or say. Like her, Lexa was blushing. But she was also smiling. She snagged Clarke’s hand in her own. “It’s OK Clarke, she already knows.” Lexa laughed.

“Well...” Master Anya started, wiping her palms together like she had just finished a job well done... Another lesson taught through spinning hook-kicks. “It appears you two have worked out your issues. My work here is done. Now... As you were.” She commanded, turning and disappearing around the corner again. “Lock up when you’re done.” She called after her.

Clarke and Lexa exchanged nervous smiles, still holding hands, both unsure of what happens next; both almost giddy with excitement.

“How long has she known?” Clarke asked. She wasn’t really surprised. Of course Master Anya knew. The woman was almost mysteriously omniscient, like a real-life Dumbledore, only with braids and hips instead of a beard.

“Longer than I have.” Lexa answered. “She says I’ve been...” If possible, Lexa was blushing even more fiercely than ever before. “Hopelessly in love with you since I was twelve.” She admitted with a nervous chuckle. “Took me a long flippin’ time to realize it. But of course, like always, she was right.” She continued, biting at her lip nervously. “I HAVE been in love with you since I was twelve; since the very moment you raised your hand in class and named all of Jupiter’s Moons and tore my entire universe apart.”

“And I should have told you as soon as I realized it.” Lexa added, shaking her head at herself. “I should have listened to Master Anya. I should have listened to Raven...” 

“Raven knows too?” Clarke asked.

Again, Clarke shouldn’t have been surprised. If Anya was like Dumbledore, Raven was like Hermione, as smart and intuitive as they came. Abby... Anya... Raven... Clarke wondered if maybe the whole world had known it all this time. How could she have been so thick? And why had she been so afraid that the world would reject her when clearly the world (or at least everyone she cared about in HER world) already knew that she and Lexa belonged together like the earth and the heavens; like the sea and the sky?

“Course she does.” Lexa answered. “Just like Master Anya, she figured it out way before I did. And I should have listened to them. I should have told you right away.” She repeated, her voice almost apologetic. 

“I should have told you that from the first time I saw you on the playground growling at Ontari with your eyes practically on fire, I knew you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen and that you were a fighter and that you were so strong and that you would never NEED anyone. And that since the first time I saw you laughing with Mr. Kane I only ever wanted to make you laugh, make you grin. And I would tell you a million stupid, stupid jokes and be the biggest idiot in the world just to make you smile. I should have told you that you deserved so much better than what Finn or Bellamy or anyone else could ever offer you, and that watching you with them was like dying inside and that being next to you, holding your hand, lying beside you under the stars is like... Like living, TRULY living. And I should have told you that...”

Lexa was rambling now, the words rushing out of her, tumbling one after another. And the words were washing over Clarke like waves, knocking her off of her feet, only to gently envelop her until she felt like she was tumbling right along with them.

“I should have told you,” Lexa continued, swallowing hard with nerves, but barely pausing to breathe. “That I could sit forever with your head in my lap. That I could spend every minute sitting beside you listening to you play your guitar or just listening to the music of your laughter or of your breathing. That sometimes, when you’re close to me, I want to hold you so badly that it feels like my skin is going to catch on fire or I’m gonna pass out or throw up, or both. I should have told you that you looked like a damn goddess in your dress, but you’re just as sexy in your pajamas or your sweats. I should have told you that I think you’re smart, so smart... And strong, so strong... And funny and kind and generous and beautiful, so, so beautiful... And a million other things... And I should have told you that...”

Lexa finally paused, choking on the words. And Clarke stared into the brightness of her almost translucent sea-green eyes, still feeling like she was tumbling in the waves; tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, struggling to find the ground beneath her; struggling to find the air above her.

“I should have told you that... That... That I love you, Clarke.” Lexa finally breathed, her voice tiny and fragile. “I love you. I always have.”

Six little words. Six little words that hit Clarke like one last, final wave; the wave that would finish her. It picked her up and drove her down and tossed her helplessly like a rag doll, pulling her apart at the seams. Lexa’s words were ripping her to shreds and she was breaking open. And it was beautiful. And she wanted nothing more than to succumb to their power, to let herself crack and break and tear open.

And she collapsed against Lexa like water breaking against rock. Because Lexa was strong... So strong. And Clarke wanted nothing more than to let Lexa hold her together; to let her stitch the messy pieces of herself together again. She wanted to let Lexa see the torn and ripped and broken parts of her. She wanted to let Lexa in. 

“I should have told you too.” Clarke whispered. “I think I’ve always loved you too. But I was scared... So scared to admit it.”

“Me too.” Lexa confessed, holding Clarke close against her and running a hand gently through Clarke’s hair. The gesture was simple; the feel of her fingers in Clarke’s hair comforting and strangely familiar. And it made Clarke want to close her eyes and melt into Lexa’s embrace like a little girl in her father’s arms, knowing she was safe; knowing she was loved; knowing she was being held by someone who would always, always, always fight for her.

“I was terrified.” Lexa chuckled. “Facing you was scarier than stepping into the ring with Ontari or that girl at Juniors with the dreads and the biceps and the voice deeper than Lincoln’s.” 

Clarke smiled at the memory of the enormous dark girl who had nearly broken Lexa at Juniors last year. The match was more of a brawl than anything else and it was a miracle that Lexa not only emerged victorious, but still on her feet. The girl practically had a mustache, and Master Anya had (half-joking, half-serious) warned them about the dangers of steroids. 

“I would have gone another five rounds with that girl rather than face you, Clarke.” Lexa admitted. “But Master Anya says that it’s supposed to be scary... Crap-your-pants-scary.”

“What is?” Clarke laughed.

“Love.” Lexa answered, the word draining from her like a happy sigh.

“Complicated.” Clarke chuckled as Lexa gave her a quizzical look. “That’s what my mom said...” She explained. “Love is supposed to be complicated... and messy.”

“Your mom knows?” Lexa asked, surprised.

“Of course she does.” Clarke answered. “Master Anya... Raven... My mom... I guess I’M the only idiot who didn’t know.” Clarke half-sighed, half-laughed.

“Nope.” Lexa chuckled. “I was an idiot too. Still am.”

“Well, now we can be idiots together.” Clarke smiled, nuzzling her cheek into the hollow of Lexa’s neck.

“Together.” Lexa agreed, the word whispered like a promise. “Together.”

And her soft lips found Clarke’s once more. And the rest of the world around them faded away. And all that was left of it was these two fighters, one clad in red, the other in blue, utterly lost in one another, holding fast together as everything else blurred to gray.


	43. Beyond the Buckle

Chapter 43  
Beyond the Buckle  
OR   
The Hopeless Romantic and the Lucky One

CLARKE

“Wow!” Did you see THAT one?” Lexa exclaimed, pointing into the prickled night sky above them.

Clarke, in fact, had not seen it. She had had her eyes fixed on Lexa, studying the beautiful details of her face; memorizing the way her lips tilted upwards at their corners; admiring the way her green eyes, wide with excitement, reflected the soft yellow glow of the streetlamps; tracing the sharp line of her jaw and the soft curves of her adorable little ears. As beautiful as the stars were, they could never properly hold Clarke’s attention when Lexa was nearby. And she didn’t, for an instant, regret missing the shooting star.

“No, I missed it.” Clarke confessed.

“Well, it was BEAUTIFUL.” Lexa sighed.

“YOU’RE beautiful.” Clarke answered. And Lexa, blushing but clearly pleased, turned her face from the sky to Clarke so she could roll her eyes at her properly.

“I mean it, Lexa.” Clarke insisted. “You’re way more beautiful than the stars.”

Lexa made a skeptical ‘yeah right,’ sound and snuggled further into Clarke’s side, resting the back of her head against Clarke’s collar bone and pulling Clarke’s right arm around her rib cage, tucking it under hers so that Clarke’s hand rested in the warmth between Lexa’s belly button and palm. “You’re such a hopeless romantic sometimes, Griffin.” Lexa laughed.

Clarke made no effort to deny the accusation. It was absolutely true and she didn’t regret THAT either. “What did you wish for, then?” She whispered against the soft edge of Lexa’s little earlobe, snagging it between her teeth and giving it a gentle, playful pull that made Lexa shiver in her arms.

“Nothing.” Lexa said with a soft sigh of pure contentment. “I’ve already got everything I want.”

“NOW who’s the hopeless romantic, Woods?” Clarke laughed.

“I guess it takes one to know one, huh?” Lexa giggled happily, weaving her fingers into Clarke’s. 

Clarke tilted her head back against the side of her house, turning her eyes to the sky. Lexa was right... It was a beautiful night, cloudless and clear. The air still had a cool crispness to it, but Clarke could almost taste the coming of Summer in the wind, carrying the promise of sunny days and cool nights ahead. 

Lexa’s body was soft and warm against Clarke’s. And she smelled of vanilla again, mixed with the sweetness of some kind of blossom. And it was only a moment’s time before Clarke had forgotten all about the beauty of the endless sky above her, getting swept up once again in the endless beauty contained right in her very arms. 

And Clarke couldn’t resist her any longer. She didn’t just want to study Lexa with her eyes. She wanted to feel Lexa. She wanted to taste Lexa. She wanted to discover every beautiful inch of her. And she couldn’t hold herself back a single moment longer. With her free hand she pushed Lexa’s hair aside so she could find the gorgeous curve of her neck with her lips. And she tickled the back of Lexa’s earlobe with the tip of her nose and slowly kissed her way down the slope of Lexa’s neck to the crook of her shoulder. 

Lexa stiffened under her touch and then melted and then stiffened again. Clarke knew she wanted to collapse against her, to allow her body to yield completely to Clarke’s touch. But she was fighting it. She was nervous. Clarke could feel it in the pulse thumping wildly in the hollow of her neck. She could hear it in the shallow rasps of her breathing. She could feel it in the heat radiating from Lexa’s skin like there were flames dancing just beneath it. 

Lexa was nervous, nervous, nervous. And the thought only made Clarke’s own heart beat faster, and her own skin burn hotter. It only made Clarke want her more.

And now Clarke couldn’t stop herself. Her lips were still busy nibbling Lexa’s neck, but her left hand was now exploring the other soft curves and firm plains and irresistible ridges of Lexa. Slowly, her intrepid fingers found their way into Lexa’s shirt, lingering only a moment on the sharp knob of her hipbone before sweeping up the ridge of her rib cage to the base of her breast. 

Clarke hesitated for a single moment, feeling Lexa go rigid in her arms, now holding her breath in anticipation. “Do you want me to stop?” Clarke whispered into Lexa’s ear, swallowing nervously.

Lexa didn’t relax any, but she didn’t hesitate to give her answer. “No.” She whispered, her voice breathy with fear and desire, as Clarke, finding her courage, slipped her fingers beneath the lacy cup of Lexa’s bra. And Lexa was breathing hard now, the fingers that she had gently woven into Clarke’s now squeezing them so tightly it was almost painful.

And Clarke was practically panting now too. She felt like her heart might just explode right out of her chest; like her skin might just suddenly burst into flame. She was in real danger of spontaneous combustion, but she could do nothing about it. There was no way she was stopping now. 

Clarke gently massaged Lexa’s breast with her palm, feeling her nipple stiffen beneath her fingertips. And she nibbled the curve of Lexa’s neck; the sharp ridge of her collar bone, the floppy edge of her earlobe, hungry, hungry, hungry for more. Lexa moaned ever so softly in her arms and if possible, the tiny, perfect sound only made Clarke want her more.

“You’re driving me crazy.” Lexa whispered, clearly torn between utter pleasure and pain. 

Clarke knew exactly how Lexa felt. Lexa’s skin against her own and beneath her fingertips and between her lips, was as intoxicating as a drug. She couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t get enough of it. And the more she got, the more she wanted. 

“Come with me.” Clarke whispered in Lexa’s ear, more a plea than a command. She pulled her tingling fingers from Lexa’s shirt and found Lexa’s other hand. And she shifted her weight, trying to rise; trying to pull Lexa with her.

“Where?” Lexa asked, her voice still light and breathy.

“Inside.” Clarke whispered back.

Lexa didn’t say anything, but she let Clarke lead her across the rooftop, through the window, and to the end of her bed. Lexa perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress, looking up at Clarke with the most beautiful mix of nervous uncertainty and pleading desire on her face, and for the millionth time in the last three weeks, Clarke was struck by her undeniable beauty, and the fact that she could now admire it unabashedly as often as she wanted. 

It had been three weeks since the night of bellowed shouts and whispered confessions; the night of fierce kicks and fiercer kisses. Three weeks. And they were the happiest three weeks of Clarke’s life. And Clarke knew she was the luckiest person in the world and she doubted she would ever be able to wrap her head around what it was she had ever done to deserve this: the most beautiful girl in the world... The most beautiful SOUL in the world... staring up at her as if CLARKE was the one worth admiring; as if Lexa believed SHE was the lucky one.

And Clarke could have admired her forever. But Lexa gripped Clarke’s hands and pulled her against her even as she let herself fall backwards onto the bed. And Clarke followed her into the sheets, feeling like she was falling, falling, falling. And now Clarke was gently hovering over Lexa, balanced on her knees and palms. And she let herself fall, fall, fall, until her lips found Lexa’s beneath her. 

And in this moment, Clarke experienced a hunger like nothing she had ever felt before. It descended over her mind like a fog. It swept through every piece of her like a snowstorm and washed over her like the fiercest of waves. It exploded in her chest like thunder. And it shot through her skin like lightning, leaving every inch of her trembling in its wake. It was a hunger that could not be ignored or fought; a hunger more urgent, more demanding than Clarke could ever survive. And now she was kissing Lexa like her life, or the very fate of the world, depended on it. 

But after a moment Lexa pulled away from her kisses and Clarke pushed back onto her palms, confused. She stared down at Lexa, struggling to find her breath, struggling to clear her foggy mind. The hunger inside of her was like an aching, a burning, the most horrible and wonderful pain. But as much as it hurt to pull herself away from Lexa, if Lexa didn’t want this, Clarke would stop in an instant. She would endure this pain ten times over for the sake of the comfort and happiness of the impossibly beautiful girl lying beneath her. 

“Are you SURE about this, Clarke?” Lexa asked, her jaw wriggling nervously, her eyes wide and glassy. And suddenly Clarke realized she had had it all wrong. It wasn’t that Lexa didn’t want this. Lexa was worried that CLARKE might not be ready. She was giving Clarke the chance to pull away if she wanted to. Clarke shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Lexa was worrying about her. Lexa always put Clarke’s needs before her own. But Clarke didn’t want to pull away. She wanted this more than she had ever wanted anything. 

“Yes, Lexa.” Clarke assured her. “I’m Sure. Abso-fucking-lutely sure.”

Lexa grinned and before Clarke could react, she gripped Clarke’s arm, pulling Clarke’s weight out from under her and twisting Clarke sideways even as she kicked her hips up against Clarke’s. And all of the sudden Clarke was the one on her back, Lexa sweeping over her like a ninja. And now Lexa was straddling her. And Lexa’s hands were sliding under Clarke’s thin sweater, working their way painfully slowly over the flat of her belly and the bumps of her ribs until they finally found their way under her bra. 

And Clarke bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. Lexa’s hands weren’t the first to explore Clarke’s breasts, but for the way Clarke was breaking apart beneath her fingertips, they might as well have been. For the first time in her life, Clarke wasn’t just tolerating the feel of another’s touch, her body enduring the wild and sloppy groping while her mind wandered elsewhere. For the first time, she was CRAVING the touch.

She was craving Lexa. She needed her like she needed the air in her lungs, the blood running through her veins. And she needed more than just her fingertips on her. She wanted, needed ALL of her. Clarke needed her lips against her lips. She needed her skin against her skin. She needed, needed, needed it.

Clarke sat up, pulling Lexa into her lap because she needed to be closer to her. And her fingers found the edge of Lexa’s shirt and tugged it upwards with a frantic urgency. Lexa pulled apart from Clarke long enough for Clarke to ease it over her head. And then Lexa’s lips were moving against hers again even as Clarke’s fingers were fumbling with the clasp of Lexa’s bra. 

Lexa shrugged loose of the bra and tossed it aside and Clarke had to pause for one moment simply to adore the beauty before her. Lexa was now completely naked from the hips up and she was biting at her lip self-consciously. Even in the semi-darkness, Clarke knew she was blushing furiously. Lexa had no idea how gorgeous every perfect curve and line of her was, and the doubt in her eyes made Clarke hurt deep inside.

“You’re beautiful.” Clarke breathed, knowing her words could never describe just how beautiful Lexa was, inside and out. No words ever could. But that would never stop Clarke from trying. “You’re so, so, beautiful.” She repeated, whispering, lost in wonder. “So, so, beautiful.”

And Clarke leaned into Lexa, hooking one arm under the legs wrapped around her to pull Lexa higher against her hips while supporting her back with the other, dipping Lexa backwards just enough so that Clarke could drag her lips along the sweet curves of Lexa’s bare chest, planting kisses in their wake. Slowly Clarke traced the outline of one perfect nipple with the tip of her tongue, her heart thrumming in her chest with the realization that Lexa was now quivering in her arms. 

And as Clarke wrapped her lips around that nipple and bit down ever so lightly on it’s tip, Lexa’s fingers in her hair went rigid, her fingernails biting into Clarke’s scalp. Lexa tilted her head back and let out the softest of whimpers.

“Clar-” She cried between gasps; a sound of pleasure and of agony and of absolute desperation. “Clarke!”

Lexa was as close to breaking apart as Clarke was, and Clarke was almost as dizzy with power as she was with desire. She wanted to push Lexa over the edge. She wanted to watch her shatter, to watch her explode with all of the beauty and force of a firecracker.

But Lexa wasn’t going down without a fight. She pulled her fingers free of Clarke’s tangles and began tugging at the sweater on Clarke’s back, clawing at its edges. And Clarke had to pause her work to oblige Lexa’s demanding fingers. And now Clarke was frantically trying to free herself from this prison of fabric, the one thing separating her skin from Lexa’s. And she was giggling uncontrollably as Lexa pulled at her inverted sweater, it’s collar stuck around Clarke’s neck so that her face was trapped within its folds. Another tug and she was free of it. Another brisk struggle and she was free of the bra too.

And then Lexa was pressing forward against Clarke, forcing her back down onto her back. And suddenly, Lexa’s soft, burning skin was flush against Clarke’s. And the curtain of Lexa’s vanilla-scented hair was falling all around Clarke’s face and neck and chest, tickling her and making her skin prickle at its light touch. And Clarke wanted to sit back up and press forward into Lexa. She wanted to hover over Lexa so she could explore every inch of her. She wanted to hear that whimper again. But Lexa, the black-belt who always refused to lose a battle, had Clarke pinned to the bed, her hips refusing to Let Clarke rise. Lexa was in control and Clarke was now at her mercy.

And Clarke was breaking apart again. Her senses were in overload now. The smell and feel and taste of Lexa was above her and inside of her and all around her. And she was drowning in it all, dizzy with breathlessness and breathless with wanting. She was utterly, hopelessly lost in Lexa. And she was thinking of absolutely nothing but the girl enveloping her; Lexa’s lips on her lips, her tongue moving tentatively, then forcefully against her own; Lexa’s fingers exploring every aching bit of her stomach and chest unbearably slowly, almost reverently; the waves of Lexa’s hair crashing gently all around her; the tips of Lexa’s nipples dragging ever so lightly along her chest. 

And then Lexa’s lips pulled away from her own and Clarke’s eyes lulled back into her head as Lexa’s tongue and lips took turns caressing their way down her neck and over her breasts and along the midline of her tummy. And she could not stop the whimper that escaped her.

“Lex-” She gasped... A cry; a plea. “Lexa!”

Clarke was in danger of exploding again, of bursting into flame, of shattering into a billion pieces. She was clutching the sheets around her in search of salvation. Because she was standing on the edge of an abyss and she wanted nothing more than to jump into the oblivion. 

But suddenly, Lexa stopped and Clarke, taking one step back from the ledge, found the ability to breathe again. She opened her eyes in confusion. Lexa was kneeling over her, her fingers hooked around the buckle of Clarke’s belt. But she wasn’t pulling at it. She was staring at Clarke, biting her lip again, the uncertainty back on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Clarke asked, her voice heavy with concern, not impatience or anger. 

“I’m nervous.” Lexa admitted, blushing fiercely again even in the semi-darkness.

“It’s OK, Lexa.” Clarke whispered, propping herself onto her elbows to be nearer to her. “So am I.”

“I’ve never...” Lexa stammered. “I’ve never...”

“It’s OK, Lexa.” Clarke repeated, pushing even closer, leaning on one hand while reaching out to tuck a lock of hair out of Lexa’s face and behind her ear. “Neither have I.”

Lexa looked surprised, confused. “But, what about Finn? And... And Bellamy?”

“They never got past the belt buckle.” Clarke grinned. “I always made them stop.”

“But you don’t want ME to stop?” Lexa asked, still unsure. “You’re sure you want this?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely positive.” Clarke repeated, stroking Lexa’s beautiful cheek with her thumb. “But if YOU aren’t sure...” Clarke spoke softly, mustering the strength to find the words. “We don’t have to go any further.”

“No...” Lexa breathed. “I want to keep going.”

“We don’t have to.” Clarke repeated, meaning every word she spoke even though every fucking inch of her longed for more; every single cell in her body was aching, aching, aching for more. 

“We can stop.” She paused to swallow, looking as deep into Lexa’s eyes as she physically could. “I’d wait forever for you, Lexa.” She promised. “Forever.”

At the word, Lexa leaned into her and kissed her so violently that Clarke fell back onto her elbows under the force of it. And she was gasping for air when Lexa pulled away again and started fumbling with her belt buckle. Clarke reached a hand around Lexa’s, making her pause and find her eyes again.

“You’re sure?” Clarke asked one last time, her heart hammering so furiously against her chest she half expected it to burst out of her at any second.

“Abso-freaking-lutely.” Lexa replied, grinning like the sexy nerd that she was. And now Clarke’s racing heart was swelling and throbbing, struggling to contain the absolute affection burning within it.

She reached out and brushed her fingertips along Lexa’s flushed cheek. “Have I ever told you, I think its fucking adorable that you never cuss?” Clarke asked, knowing that she was now grinning like a big nerd too.

Lexa didn’t reply. She was too focused on the task at hand.

“Stupid belt!” She exclaimed in frustration.

And Clarke found her fingers again, grasping them in her own. “Together?” She asked, snagging the end of her belt from Lexa’s trembling fingers and giving it a tug even as Lexa pried the little metal prong from its hole.

“Together.” Lexa answered. 

And within seconds the belt was unfastened and tossed aside, becoming nothing but another abandoned shadowy shape on the floor. Within moments it would be buried beneath a heap of rumpled jeans and lacy underwear. And the belt, along with the rest of the world, would be altogether forgotten. 

Because Clarke and Lexa were drowning together once more.


	44. Peristalsis

PART FOUR: Walking Entwined Hand in Hand  
OR  
The Sweet Finish (Which is Not Really an Ending at All, But Really More of Another Beautiful Beginning)

 

Chapter 44  
Peristalsis  
OR  
Red Light at the Uncomfortable Intersection of Gratitude and Love

LEXA

“Have I told you yet that you’re beautiful?” I ask, sidling up behind her and gently wrapping my arms around her waist, being careful not to wrinkle the smooth satin of her dress. 

Clarke’s blue eyes find mine in the mirror and she pauses from her work long enough to string a reply together. “Three times now, I think.” She chuckles.

“Oh.” I laugh, leaning over one shoulder until my lips are right beside her ear. “How about RAVISHING? Have I told you that you’re ravishing?”

“No. Not yet.” She answers as I plant a kiss on her neck, working my way slowly and gently down it’s smooth curve to where it meets her bare shoulder.

“Well, you’re RAVISHING, Clarke Griffin.” I say between kisses. “Absolutely ravishing.”

Clarke is busy rushing to finish her make-up and I know I should leave her be. But I can’t. I physically can’t. She is like gravity, a veritable force of nature I can never resist, always drawing me in closer and closer. I can tell she’s fighting me, trying to focus her attentions on the mirror and the mascara brush poised in her hand. But already I can feel her body relaxing, giving in to my touch.

“Dammit.” She groans. “You know I can’t kiss you right now, Lexa. I just finished my lip-gloss.” 

I ignore her, now slowly making my way back up the slope of her neck.

“Oh, fuck it.” She sighs. “I can reapply.” 

And I grin as she drops her make-up to the counter and swivels in my arms so that her lips can meet mine. And it doesn’t matter that it’s been over a year since the first time she kissed me, my heart still flutters violently within me at the feel of her lips against mine. It will never matter how much time passes, how many tender or wild or simple moments we share together... Clarke is like a drug to me, rushing through my blood and making my heart beat faster and my skin tingle and my brain go foggy. And I am hopelessly addicted to her. She is a drug I can NEVER get enough of. 

“It took me ten minutes to squeeze into this dress.” Clarke mumbles between kisses. “It is NOT coming off.” She warns, even as her hands find their way beneath the waist of my pajama pants, her fingers gripping my ass playfully and pulling me into her until my hips are flush with hers and I’m feeling as dizzy and breathless as always.

“But...” I whine, pulling out of her kiss to pull my tingly lips into a practiced pout. And Clarke just laughs and destroys it with another kiss. “I’m so...” I snag her bottom lip and give it a gentle nibble before pulling away again. “Hungry for you.”

“Peristalsis?” Clarke asks, pulling back far enough to flash a teasing smirk at me. It’s become a joke between us. But the word can never fully describe the pain of longing deep, deep inside of me, so much worse than the hunger in my tummy. 

“Peristalsis!” I groan, moving forward again to close the space between us, dropping my lips to her neck again, starting at the hollow where I can feel her blood moving gently beneath her skin and working my way up towards her earlobe. Clarke smells like peppermint soap and her hair smells like coconuts, and the combination is driving me crazy, absolutely crazy. 

“Well.” Clarke half sighs, half scolds me. “You should have thought about that last night. If you had gotten your ass out of bed with me this morning instead of just laying there like a lump... I might have let you join me in the shower.”

“Hey...” I whisper, tucking the tip of my nose into the hollow of her ear, relishing the shiver that runs down her spine at my breath. “Whose bright idea was it to start a three-and-a-half-hour movie at 11 o’clock at night?”

“I didn’t hear any objections to it last night.” Clarke replies, swiveling in my arms and resuming painting her lashes black. 

“You know I can’t resist Titanic.” I argue, resting my chin softly in the crook of her shoulder and finding her eyes in the mirror. 

“You didn’t have to watch the whole damn thing.” Clarke laughs. 

“Again... You know I can’t resist Titanic.” I repeat.

Of course it had been Clarke’s idea to start the movie. Of course she had fallen asleep a mere twenty minutes into it. And of course I had stayed up until the very end, my attentions divided between the screen and the beauty sleeping with her head nestled in my lap. And when the movie had ended, the last painful notes of Celine Dion’s ballad fading into silence, of course I had spent another half hour simply admiring Clarke, running my fingers through her hair and along her cheek, watching her dream. I could have passed hours and hours and hours just like that, lost in wonder, still unable to comprehend that she is mine as much as I have always been hers and always will be. She is my Rose and my Jack and my everything. She is the sea I am drowning in and the lifeboat keeping me afloat. 

“Well.” Clarke says sassily, reapplying her lip gloss and shattering all of my hopes of getting any further with her right now. “I’m sorry about your peristalsis, but you’re gonna have to wait for tonight.”

“You sure we don’t have just a FEW minutes?” I ask, flashing her the most seductive smile I can muster, which for some reason only makes her giggle rather than swoon. “What if I help you get your dress back on this time instead of just laughing at you while you struggle?”

“Nice try, Lexa.” Clarke says, swatting at my wandering hand. “But, let’s be honest... We both know putting clothes ON me isn’t really in your skill set.”

“I am pretty good at taking them OFF of you though, right?” I snicker, wiggling an eyebrow. “I can’t be a master at EVERYTHING. And really, which skill is more important in the long run, huh?”

“Like I said... The dress is staying on.” Clarke says.

I don’t know how she manages to resist my wiggly eyebrow trick or my devilish grin. If the situation were reversed, my perfect satin dress would be a wrinkled heap on the floor right now. But, like I’ve always said, Raven’s wrong... Clarke is stronger than I am.

“Plus... We really don’t have time.” Clarke adds, glancing at the numbers on her phone and panicking slightly. “Shit... It’s already after 11. And you’re still in your pajamas! Correction... You’re still in MY pajamas!”

“You know, Clarke...” I reply pensively, not at all alarmed by the time. “I’ve been thinking. I want your pajamas to become MY pajamas. And my pajamas can be your pajamas.”

“You want them to become OUR pajamas?” Clarke asks with a raised brow.

“Exactly.” I grin. “OUR pajamas.”

“Lexa,” Clarke answers, her tone far too dry. “Besides your legs, those fuzzy pants are the best thing I’ve ever had wrapped around my hips. And I expect them back.”

“Fine.” I pout. But it only lasts a second before my smirk returns. “If you want them back so badly, just say the word and I’ll take them off for you right now.”

Clarke glares at me in the mirror with an ‘I don’t have time for your shenanigans right now’ look that only makes me chuckle further. 

“Really, Lexa.” She says, her voice a mixture of weariness and urgency. “It’s after eleven!”

“Relax, Clarke.” I laugh. “I just gotta run home and get dressed real quick. It doesn’t take me ten minutes to squeeze into MY outfit.”

“Why didn’t you just bring it with you?” She asks again. 

“Because, I wasn’t planning on staying here last night, was I? You seductive temptress, you.” I argue. “Plus, you know you’re not supposed to see me dressed before the wedding... It’s bad luck.”

“First of all,” Clarke argues, brandishing her liner like a weapon. “I didn’t seduce you... I was asleep...”

“Unfortunately, your magical powers of seduction don’t deactivate while you’re sleeping, Clarke.” I laugh. 

“Second of all,” She continues, ignoring my joke, setting down the liner, and snagging her necklace from the counter. “That whole luck thing is just a silly superstition. And thirdly, I’m not sure you have a correct grasp on how that works in the first place.”

“Well, either way, you’re not seeing my outfit till you meet me on the aisle.” I tease, snatching the necklace from her fumbling fingers and securing its clasp for her. The dainty chain falls perfectly over her collar bones, the simple pendant resting just above her breastbone. And my eyes cannot help but follow it’s lines to the heaving breasts below. And I sigh at the pleasure and the pain centered in that spot resting behind my navel and radiating out into the very marrow of my bones. Peri-friggin-stalsis.

And I plant one last kiss on the edge of her neck before crying out in an urgent voice. “Aww... Crap. It’s already after 11?! Why didn’t you tell me?” I flash her a last teasing smile in the mirror. “I gotta go! I’m still in my pajamas!”

I make for the door, but Clarke snags my wrist before I can pass through and I turn in surprise as she pulls me into her again, smothering me in a kiss that leaves every inch of my skin tingling, desperate for more. 

“Peristalsis.” I whimper as she releases me and pulls away. 

“Peri-fucking-stalsis.” She giggles, her lip-gloss all-a-mess. And it takes all of the strength left in me to turn and walk away.

 

***...*** 

 

“Wow, Lexa!” Master Anya exclaims. “Don’t you look... Dashing.” She chuckles.

I play with the end of a braid, smiling at her, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “Wow, yourself... Master Anya.” I reply back. “You look stunning.”

Master Anya’s dressed in a tight black number with a long slit running down the side showing teasing glimpses of her strong, lean leg. I’m so used to seeing her dressed in a Tae Kwon Do uniform or laying around in old sweatpants and hoodies, that I have to blink at her a few times to adjust to this new version of her. Her hair, instead of hanging in a lazy ponytail, is swept up into a loose knot with long strands cascading from it in curly waves and her lips are painted a deep maroon that pops dramatically against her olive skin and sharp cheekbones. 

“I clean up OK.” Master Anya shrugs, and I can tell by the smile on her face that, like me, she is half-embarrassed, half-pleased. 

“I’ll say.” I laugh. 

“You ready?” She asks, snagging her keys from the hook by the door. 

“Just gotta grab my shoes.” 

“Well, get a move on, girl.” She scolds me. “They can’t start anything without you.”

***...***

“Master Anya...” I begin tentatively as we idle at yet another red light.

“Yeah?” She replies absently, her eyes locked on the light as if she is trying to turn it to green using only the powers of her mind.

“I just wanted to say...” Something about this moment, this whole day, I’m feeling a bit more gushy than usual. “I just wanted to say... Thank you.”

“For what?” Anya replies, still distracted.

“For EVERYTHING.” I say, swallowing hard, fighting back the lump forming in my throat. “For teaching me how to fight-”

“You already knew how to fight, Lexa.” Master Anya chuckles. “I just taught you how to kick.”

“Well, for teaching me how to kick, then.” I smile. 

“You’re welcome, Lexa.”

“Wait... I’m not done.” I say, taking a deep breath. 

I don’t think I can find enough words to ever properly express my gratitude for the woman sitting beside me, everything she has done for me, everything she means to me. Master Anya didn’t just teach me how to fight in a ring. She’s taught me how to fight through life, how to believe in myself, how to push myself, how to pick myself up off the floor when I’m knocked down into a sweaty, bloody, broken mess. And she’s taught me what it truly looks like to be a good person; how to stand up for others, how to be generous and kind, how to keep patient with screaming four-year-olds and equally childish, angry FORTY-four-year-olds. She’s taught me how to see the good and the potential in every person and in myself and how to strive towards both. And she’s taught me how to give (and even harder for me to learn) RECEIVE help. And she’s taught me a million other things I cannot even begin to list. 

“Thank you for all the food you’ve given me all these years,” I continue. “And the shelter too...”

“You’re not a stray dog I took in, Lexa.” Master Anya chuckles.

“I know.” I answer, one hundred percent serious. “But I’m not your daughter either. Or even your little sister... And yet... You’ve always been there over the years. You’ve ALWAYS been there. And I just want to say thanks for being my coach, and my mentor, and my... My family.” I choke out.

Master Anya finally pulls her eyes from the stubborn red light to look at me. And, for once, she isn’t laughing.

“I didn’t tell you, Lexa...” She says softly after a moment, and I have a feeling a lump is forming in her own throat now. “All the paperwork finally went through. I found out the other day. Which means you’re wrong... Officially, according to the state, you ARE my daughter now. But, paperwork or no paperwork... We’ve ALWAYS been family, kiddo.” 

We’re both choking back the tears now, pretending to be perfectly fine, perfectly strong, while our insides turn to complete, sappy mush. Master Anya leans over the console between us and tries her best to wrap her arms around me. And I crave her embrace like the warmth and comfort of a favorite old blanket wrapped around me. But we pull apart sharply at the blaring of a horn from behind us. 

“What... NOW the damn light decides to turn green?” Master Anya grumbles, stomping on the gas.

“I love you, Master Anya.” I say, smiling at the frustration on her face as she glares at the impatient driver behind us. 

“I love you too, kiddo.” She whispers back. “I love you too.”


	45. Down the Aisle

Chapter 45  
Down the Aisle  
OR  
Fine Stud Lexa and the Powerpuff Girls

LEXA

“You may now kiss the bride.” The minister pronounces.

I find Clarke’s eyes, as blue and blazing as ever, and hold them. She is smirking at me, laughing silently at the tears building in my own. Dammit... She was right... I am the first one to cry. And I can’t hold them back any longer. So I swallow my pride and let the tears fall like drops of joy leaking from me. And then I smirk too because, at the sight of me crying, the tears are now building in Clarke’s eyes too. 

Mr. Kane cups Abby’s cheek in one palm and wraps the other around the small of her back, pulling her into him. And Clarke makes a ridiculous ‘eww... I can’t watch this face,’ scrunching her nose and pulling her lip back in disgust even as she’s still smiling. And I am laughing at her as the church erupts in applause. 

The kiss is deep and long enough to make Clarke’s cheeks flush with embarrassment on her mother’s behalf. And every eye in this church is fixed on Mr. Kane and Abby, except for mine. Mine are fixed on Clarke. They always have been. They always will be.

“Ladies and Gentlemen...” The minister calls out as the newlyweds finally part and the whistles and whoops subside. “May I present to you, for the first time... Mr. And Mrs. Abigail and Marcus Kane!” 

Mr. Kane takes Abby by the hand and leads her back down the aisle to another roaring round of applause and I finally have the chance to move to Clarke’s side. I immediately grasp her free hand in mine, weaving our fingers together as we watch the couple parting the sea of family and friends. 

“Your mom looks happy.” I whisper. Between the flowing white dress and the flowing honey brown curls of her hair, the crystals on her ears and neck and in her hair and the bouquet of daisies and wildflowers dangling at her side, Abby looks absolutely gorgeous. But the most beautiful thing she’s wearing is her smile.

“Yeah, she really does, doesn’t she?” Clarke says pulling my fingers even more tightly into hers. “They both do.”

***...***

“Did you just wrap a piece of chicken in your napkin and stuff it in your purse?” Luna asks Octavia, appalled and confused and unabashedly judgmental. 

“Lincoln’s cooking dinner for me tonight.” Octavia explains, her cheeks blushing almost as pink as her rose-colored dress. 

“Did he ask you to bring a chicken breast?” Luna asks, clearly not following.

“He’s still vegan.” Octavia reminds her. “And you know I need my protein. I sneak bites when he’s not looking.”

“Yes, because Lincoln is clearly suffering from a protein deficiency.” Raven laughs sarcastically. “It’s a medical wonder he hasn’t wasted away.” 

“Do you know how much protein I used to shove down that boy’s throat?” Master Anya chuckles from beside me. “When he told me he was giving up meat, I really DID think he would waste away. But now, I swear if he puts on any more muscle, we’re going to have to move him up to heavyweight. I still remember when he was the scrawniest little thing.” She shakes her head, smiling nostalgically. “Lexa used to knock him around the ring. I had to scold you and tell you to hold back, remember Lexa? I was scared you might just break him.”

“You never told ME to hold back.” Octavia says, zipping up her chicken-stuffed clutch. 

“Would it have made a difference if I had?” Anya laughs.

“Probably not.” Octavia admits.

“You never did go easy on that poor boy.” Anya says. “You still don’t.” 

“Naw... You know I hate to admit it, but he’s stronger than me now.” Octavia grumbles. “But I’m still faster and smarter. So we’re pretty evenly matched in the ring.”

“She wasn’t talking about in the ring, Octavia.” I laugh, exchanging grins with Anya.

“Hey look, there’s Mr. Gustus.” Raven says, cutting Octavia off as she opened her mouth to retaliate. “Damn... He cleans up pretty good for a teacher. And, look... Sitting next to him, is that...” 

I follow Raven’s gaze to a table a few rows down where Mr. Gustus is sipping from a glass of wine, his bulging suit-jacket barely able to contain his massive biceps. He’s making small talk with a fierce-looking, dark-skinned woman dressed in a no-nonsense black and white blouse and skirt, pushing her chicken around her plate and frowning at it as if personally disappointed by the bird. I half expect her to reach into her purse and pull out a meal evaluation sheet and a red pen.

“Ms. Indra!” I finish for Raven. “Looking as surly as ever!” I grin.

I haven’t seen the woman in years. And I’m slightly surprised at the affection I feel stirring in my tummy at the sight of her.

“I’m going to go say, ‘Hi.’” Raven announces, pushing out of her chair. “Come with me, somebody?”

I’m about to push my own plate aside and join her when a voice in my ear sends a shiver down my spine and I forget all about Raven and Ms. Indra and everyone else around me.

“Hey there, fine stud.” Clarke whispers into my ear. “Is that a wallet bulging in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“Actually...” I laugh as Clarke slips into the seat beside me and steals my plate right out from under me. 

We were both called away for photographs before dinner was served, but my duties as the ‘Honorary Best Man’ (A position I only agreed to take after copious amounts of pleading from Clarke on Mr. Kane’s behalf. But like almost everything Clarke ropes me (or seduces me) into, I’m beyond glad I agreed to it) were far easier to fulfill than Clarke’s as both the Maid of Honor and daughter of the bride. It’s been twenty minutes since I was dismissed. And Clarke is now finally free too. 

“Now that you mention it...” I continue, handing her my fork with a happy sigh. “It IS a wallet.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the massive wallet, a horrendous plastic thing I found in a five-dollar bin at Walgreens. It immediately made me think of Clarke and there was no way I could resist buying it. 

“I’ve been meaning to give this to you for a while now.” I admit, swallowing nervously. “But I was waiting and waiting and waiting for the right moment. And I’m tired of waiting, so I guess now’s as good a time as ever.”

“Powerpuff Girls?” Clarke exclaims through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, reaching for the awful shiny pink wallet in my fist with Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup soaring from the center of a massive pink heart surrounded by stars printed across its front. 

“I thought you would like it.” I chuckle.

“It’s awesome.” Clarke grins. “Where did you find this.”

“Open it.” Is all I say.

And now I’m nervously working my bottom lip between my teeth as Clarke wipes her hands on my napkin and sets the wallet down on her lap. And I hold my breath as she grabs hold of the velcro latch and wrenches it open.


	46. Lexa's Gift

Chapter 46  
Lexa’s Gift  
OR  
A Tie and a Top Hat

 

CLARKE

Clarke didn’t know what to say. She was lost for words, utterly speechless. To think only seconds ago she had been so excited about a gigantic, cheap plastic wallet, the kind that nine-year-old girls carry around in their Hello-Kitty purses with nothing but a couple of quarters, a picture of Justin Beiber, and their school library card tucked into it. And now she realized the wallet, cool as it was, wasn’t the gift. It wasn’t the gift at all. And never had such an obnoxious magenta piece of plastic ever housed such priceless treasures. 

She stared down at the first photo tucked into its little protective film. She didn’t need to study it. She already had every little detail of this photo seared into her memory. And the sight of Little Lexa’s grin, the exact copy of her father’s only inverted by gravity, still hit her with a wave of guilt that felt like taking one of Lexa’s back-kicks right in the gut. 

Though weeks had passed, Clarke still remembered the incident like it had happened yesterday. She and Lexa had been sitting on opposite sides of her bed, playing a round of Strip-Study, maintaining a safe distance between each other so as to stay at least relatively focused on the studying part of the game. 

“In which play does Shakespeare write, ‘Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them?’” Lexa had quizzed her. 

“Easy.” Clarke had answered. She was sitting there already stripped down to her shirt, bra, and undies, the rest of her clothes piled dejectedly on the floor beside Lexa. Mistakes had been made. And it was crucial she get this one right. 

“Twelfth Night.” She answered, smirking smugly. “And there goes your other sock, Woods.”

Lexa was still fully dressed, having lost nothing but her ugly orange safety vest (after a long debate about whether that even counted as a piece of clothing) and one sock.

“I don’t think so, Griffin.” Lexa had smirked right back. “The correct answer is ‘What You Will.’”

“What?” Clarke objected. “No it’s not. That is definitely from Twelfth Night. I remember reading it and thinking that is totally something Dumbledore would say.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Clarke.” Lexa had shrugged. “Says here the answer is ‘What You Will.’ Actually... On second hand... I DO know what to tell you.” She grinned. “Lose the shirt.”

“What You Will?” Clarke had mumbled, still unconvinced. “I don’t even remember reading a play called ‘What You Will...’”

“Take it off! Take it off!” Lexa had chanted in reply. And with a sigh of submission, Clarke had pulled her top off, leaving her dressed in only her lacy black bra and her Supergirl undies. She balled up her blouse and chucked it at Lexa’s beaming face. Of course Lexa deflected the ball of clothing with an easy block and it ended up at the summit of the ever-growing pile of Clarke’s clothes.

Lexa had let out a low whistle, still grinning. “Man I love this game.” She had laughed. “Alright... Next question. In which play does Shakespeare write, ‘Better a witty fool than a foolish wit?’”

“OK... THAT one is DEFINITELY Twelfth Night.” Clarke answered.

“The correct answer...” Lexa paused dramatically. “Is again, ‘What You Will.’”

“No!” Clarke protested. “I know for a FACT that one’s Twelfth Night!”

“Take it off! Take it off!” Lexa had grinned, ignoring Clarke’s protests entirely.

“You’re lying, Lexa!” Clarke had accused. “I’ve never even heard of ‘What You Will. Are you messing with me?”

“OK...” Lexa had answered. “I’ll make you a deal... If you get the NEXT one right, you can keep the bra on. And I’ll take off TWO items. If you get it wrong, you lose the bra AND panties and, incidentally, the game.”

“THREE items.” Clarke negotiated. “And I get to choose them.”

“Fine.” Lexa had agreed with a cocky smirk. “Here’s the question: The Shakespearean comedy Twelfth Night is also known by what less commonly used... BUT STILL EQUALLY LEGITIMATE... title?” She asked, wearing a devilish grin.

“You dirty cheater!” Clarke had exclaimed, putting two and two together. She snagged the pillow she was leaning against and chucked it at Lexa’s grinning face. “You tricked me. I KNEW they were both from Twelfth Night. You cheated... and for punishment, I’ll take that other sock, your sweater, and let’s see... I guess it’ll have to be either the pants or the shirt.”

But Lexa wasn’t listening. She was staring at something in her lap with a confused frown. She picked it up and Clarke’s heart had dropped right into her stomach. 

“Where did you get this?” Lexa had asked, gingerly holding the photo out by its corner like it was some sensitive piece of evidence at a crime scene.

“Uhhh...” Clarke had stammered, frozen in horror at the situation she had gotten herself into.

“Did you... Did you steal this from my father’s grave?” Lexa asked, incredulous.

“I uhhh...” Clarke could still not find any words. Lexa was staring at her, waiting for her to explain herself. And though she still had her bra and undies on, she suddenly felt naked, completely exposed.

“You went back to the graveyard without me, found my father’s tombstone, and stole from it?” 

“No... I...” Clarke had dropped her eyes, feeling her face burning under Lexa’s gaze. “I didn’t STEAL it... I mean, well, yeah I took it... That same day I met you there, while you were getting your bike.” Clarke admitted. “But... But I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“Why?” Lexa had asked, still confused, still frowning.

“I... I wanted it.” Clarke had shrugged. “I know I shouldn’t have taken it. I just... I don’t have any pictures of you when you were little and I saw you leave this one and I just... I couldn’t stop myself.”

Lexa was blinking at Clarke, looking at her as if seeing some stranger she didn’t know; some stranger she didn’t understand.

“I... I’m sorry, Lexa.” Clarke had said, meaning the words with every bone in her body. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I...” Lexa had replied, searching for an answer. “I... I gotta go.” 

Lexa had shoved her books back into her backpack and pushed herself from the end of Clarke’s bed. 

“No, Lexa. Please don’t go.” Clarke had pleaded, scrambling to her feet to snag Lexa’s wrist.

Lexa hadn’t said anything. She had looked down at Clarke’s fingers wrapped around her arm, clinging to her like hope. Lexa looked more torn between confusion and disbelief than anger. And Clarke almost wished Lexa would yell at her, scream at her, even push her away. Because the anger would have been easier for Clarke to swallow than the look of hurt in Lexa’s eyes.

“Sorry, Clarke.” Lexa had said, pulling her arm free of Clarke’s clutches. “I just... I can’t be here right now.”

And just like that Lexa had left the room, leaving nothing but her ugly orange vest and one lonely, forgotten sock behind. And Clarke was left alone with her screaming thoughts, wearing nothing but her undies and the tears on her cheeks.

Two long, painful hours later, Clarke’s phone had vibrated and she had read through her puffy red eyes, the most wonderful text she had ever received:

‘I’m sorry for how I reacted. I’m not angry. I love you.’

And the next day, when they met in the hall at school, Lexa had taken Clarke’s hand in her own and kissed her on the cheek as if nothing had happened. And she had never mentioned the incident again. 

And now, Lexa hadn’t only forgiven Clarke, she had taken that stolen photo and made a smaller copy of it and tucked it into this wallet for Clarke to have and hold forever. And it wasn’t the only one. 

Clarke stared down at the photos, flipping slowly through them one-by-one, feeling the tears crawling up her throat. Some of the pictures Clarke recognized from Lexa’s photo-album, little glimpses into Lexa’s childhood, filled with her gap-toothed grin, her pigtails, her baggy shirts and overalls. Others Clarke had never seen.

“I went through Master Anya’s old pictures.” Lexa spoke softly, nervously. 

They were pictures of the two of them taken over the years: two little sixth graders, one dressed as Pikachu, the other covered in black face-paint, beaming at the camera proudly while holding jack-o-lanterns; the two of them side by side in cheesy fighting stances and sweaty uniforms, gold medals dangling from each of their necks; the two of them showing off their team sweatshirts in ridiculous Superman poses. The two of them standing in front of a Christmas tree, wearing Santa hats with their uniforms. 

The staged photos made Clarke laugh and blush at how dorky they once were. But it was the candid pictures, the little everyday, non-consequential moments that had been captured without Lexa or Clarke’s knowledge, that made Clarke’s heart swell and ache within her. 

Clarke studied the images, fighting through the sting in her eyes. Clarke and Lexa grinning at each other through mouthfuls of broken breadsticks; Clarke cowering behind Lexa while Lexa took a dodgeball to the face for her; a recent photo of them just sitting on the mats in their gear, Lexa’s red chest protector grazing Clarke’s blue one, backs propped against the mirrors, holding hands and laughing at some forgotten joke. 

“This one’s my SECOND favorite.” Lexa said, flipping to a photo of the two of them, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, sprawled out beneath the base of a fir tree Clarke recognized as the one at the summit of Nutcracker Hill on Mt. Tabor. Lexa was leaning against the trunk, her legs stretched out before her. Clarke was laying perpendicular to her, her shoulders propped against Lexa’s side, her arms and legs flopped out like a dying starfish. Clarke had her eyes closed and a look of utter exhaustion on her face. And Lexa was looking down at her with a small smile on her own. 

And Clarke was amazed it had taken them so, so, fucking long to figure it all out. Because this photo, taken years ago, had captured the truth as clear as day. It was present in the curve of Lexa’s smile and in the softness of her eyes: Love. Pure, unassuming, undemanding, and unrelenting love. 

“Do you... Do you like it?” Lexa asked.

Clarke still could find no words. She could feel the tears welling in the corners of her eyes and she couldn’t fight them back any longer. They were leaking from her like gratitude, like love.

“I... I love it, Lexa.” Clarke finally choked out. “I love it.”

“Do you want to know which one is my ultimate favorite?” Lexa asked, smiling shyly. She flipped to the very back of the wallet, the last plastic slip. “This one.”

“It’s empty.” Clarke commented, confused. 

“I know.” Lexa chuckled. “We haven’t filled it yet.” 

Lexa reached out and cupped one palm around Clarke’s cheek, gently lifting her face until their eyes met. And Clarke could tell by the intensity in her eyes that Lexa was nervous again, but Lexa was doing her very best to keep her bright sea-green eyes locked on Clarke’s. And, just like she had felt the first time she had dared look into Lexa’s eyes so many years ago, Clarke felt like she was staring into the base of a wave again; like she was playing in the surf, knowing that whatever Lexa was about to say might knock her right off of her feet.

“Clarke,” Lexa started and Clarke held her breath, waiting for the waves. 

“I want to capture every second I spend with you.” She said, her voice as serious as ever. “Because every moment with you is worth remembering. And... I was thinking...” Lexa paused dramatically and Clarke was barely breathing, barely staying afloat. 

“Maybe...” Lexa continued. “We could start with THIS one.” 

Lexa laughed and raised her free arm above them so quickly that all Clarke could do was look up in confusion as Lexa’s lips planted a kiss on her cheek and the phone’s camera flashed. 

“I have a feeling THAT one’s going to be my favorite.” Lexa snickered, the intensity in her eyes now replaced by a teasing, devilish glint.

“Hey, I wasn’t ready.” Clarke pouted, snatching the phone from Lexa’s fingers and holding it at the ready above them. 

“Smile, Lexa.” She commanded, as Lexa leaned in beside her and tried her best to turn her wicked grin into a respectable smile.

“OK, on three.” Clarke directed. “One... Two...” And before Lexa could react, Clarke reached up and took Lexa’s cheek in her free hand, twisting her surprised face towards her own. And she clicked the photo just as their lips met in a kiss as deep and tender and pure as any other. 

“OK...” Lexa sighed as they finally pulled apart. “THAT one might be my favorite. But...” She added, reaching for the phone. “Maybe we should take another just like it. You know... in case it’s blurry or something.”

Clarke tightened her grip on the phone and pulled it behind her back. “Naw...” She whispered in Lexa’s ear as Lexa leaned over her, playfully reaching for the phone. “We can take more later. We’ll have a million more moments to capture.” She promised. “A million more perfect moments just like this one.” And she snagged Lexa by the end of her tie and pulled her in once more.

“Hey,” A voice spoke and Clarke pulled out of the kiss just in time to get pummeled in the temple by a dinner roll. “You two disgusting lovebirds... Teacher incoming!” Luna warned. 

Clarke turned to see Mr. Gustus, still as tall, solid, and wild looking as she remembered him being in middle school, striding toward them, led by Raven. 

“Hey, Master Anya...” Raven smiled mischievously. “This is Mr. Gustus. He taught me Science in seventh and eight grade.”

“What she means,” Mr. Gustus said, a surprisingly shy smile crossing his handsome, rugged face. “Is that I stood in the front of the class, wrote things on the board, and doled out homework assignments. But really, I’m pretty sure she taught me more science in those two years than I have taught my students over the course of ten.”

Master Anya’s eyes swept subtly over the monster of a man standing before them, her lips slightly puckered. But it seemed Mr. Gustus passed the assessment. She flashed him a surprisingly seductive smile. “Well, if YOU’RE the one responsible for teaching her how to analyze the physics behind running and jumping and kicking,” Master Anya chuckled. “Then I’d say you owe me a bottle of aspirin or two.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have any pharmaceuticals handy.” Mr. Gustus laughed. “But perhaps I could buy you a...” He paused, blushing, glancing guiltily at the table of underage girls whom he had once taught, all listening in on this conversation.

“I think what he’s trying to say is he wants to buy you a drink, Master Anya.” Octavia laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Hmmm... Perhaps you could start making it up to me by offering me a dance first.” Master Anya suggested with a wink, rising to her feet and leading a grinning Mr. Gustus towards the dance floor.

“Wow.” Lexa giggled. “The only time I’ve ever seen Master Anya swaying her hips like that is when she’s triple-kicking me in the face.” 

“The only time I’ve ever seen her wink like that was when... Scratch that... I’ve NEVER seen her wink like that.” Clarke replied with her own giggles.

“The only time I’ve ever seen-” Lexa started.

“Sorry to interrupt.” A gruff voice from behind made Clarke jump. “But I was hoping for a word with my Best Man.”

Mr. Kane, his hands perched on the back of Lexa’s chair, was grinning down at the two of them. 

“Join me for a dance?” He asked, holding his arm out toward Lexa like a proper gentleman.

“I...” Lexa stammered.

But Clarke answered for her. “Sorry... But Lexa hates dancing. If ANYONE’S dragging this fox out onto the dance floor, it had better be ME.” 

Lexa smacked Clarke’s knee with the back of her hand. She was blushing but she also looked relieved.

“Well then... If not a dance... Perhaps a hug?” Mr. Kane compromised. 

Lexa rose to embrace him and Clarke had to strain her ears to listen in. “I just wanted to thank you again for standing beside me today, Lexa.” Mr. Kane whispered. “It meant more to me than I could ever tell you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Kane.” Lexa said back. “It was no big deal.”

“Yes it was.” Mr. Kane replied. “And don’t you think it’s about time the both of you started calling me ‘Marcus?’” He laughed, glaring down at Clarke as well. Clarke reached for the roll that had bounced off of her head and took a bite, pretending to be oblivious to the whole conversation. 

“I always felt like we were meant to be family.” Mr. Kane whispered to Lexa as they pulled apart. “Funny how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?” And he tipped his hat at the two of them. “Excuse me, Ladies. I’m off to find my beautiful bride.”

“Hey, by the way...” Clarke whispered to Lexa as she plunked back down beside her. “Have I told you yet how sexy you look in that suit?”

“Not exactly.” Lexa chuckled. “Though I do recall being called a ‘fine stud’ and a ‘fox.’”

“Well,” Clarke smirked, pulling Lexa by the tie again. “You’re a SEXY fox of a fine stud, Lexa Woods. I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t let me see you dressed this morning, after all. Or I’d probably STILL be trying to get back into this dress.” 

“Yeah?” Lexa laughed, wiggling her eyebrows in that goofy, adorable way she thought was sexy. “You would have risked messing up your lip gloss AGAIN for me?”

“In that suit?” Clarke laughed. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” 

Lexa’s suit was somehow both masculine and feminine at the same time, tailored perfectly to her slender curves, the jacket thrown open in a devil-may-care sort of way to reveal the tight white blouse beneath it. It was more than sexy. It made Lexa seem... Powerful, even a little... Dangerous. And the combination was driving Clarke mad. 

“Well, as much as I enjoy seeing that look of... Hmm...” Lexa paused to choose her words, licking her lips ever so slowly (a trick that could actually get Clarke tingling in all the right places) and wiggling her eyebrows again (putting a halt to all previously mentioned tingling, making Clarke grin and shake her head instead). “Suit-induced peristalsis on your face,” Lexa continued, her devilish smirk returning with a vengeance. “Don’t get too used to it.” Lexa warned. “I mean... The pockets are kinda handy, I’ll admit. And the shoes are way comfier than heels... But I only wore this suit for Mr. Kane’s sake. You can bet I’m wearing a dress at OUR wedd-”

Lexa cut herself off, blushing at the words that had just slipped past her. She looked up at Clarke with nervous eyes, waiting for her reaction as if afraid Clarke might leap to her feet and bolt from the room, leaving nothing but a Clarke-sized cut-out in the wall behind her. 

“I don’t know...” Clarke teased. “Pockets and comfy shoes? Maybe I’LL wear the suit at our wedding.”

Lexa looked beyond relieved at Clarke’s casual reaction. She looked downright elated. “You can wear whatever you want, Griffin.” She grinned. “Though when it comes to suits, you know I prefer your BIRTHDAY suit.”

“I don’t know.” Clarke smirked, snagging the smooth edge of Lexa’s jet-black jacket and running it through her fingers. “You’ve never seen me in THIS suit. Maybe I’ll try it on for you later...” She whispered, raising a brow. “Or... Maybe just the tie... and the top hat.”

“Oh god...” Lexa moaned. “What time is it? Is it too early to just slip away, now?” 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be patient, Lexa.” Clarke laughed.

“But the peristalsis...” Lexa groaned. “I might die...”

“Here,” Clarke snickered. “Have a roll.”

“You know no ROLL could ever satisfy this hunger.” Lexa pouted. 

“Well then, we’d better find a way to distract you, hadn’t we?” Clarke replied, snagging Lexa’s abandoned hat from the ground beside her chair and rising to her feet. The vintage hat had a ribbon of satin running along its base that perfectly matched the cornflower blue of her bridesmaid’s dress. She pulled the hat onto the crown of her head and extended one hinged arm towards Lexa. 

“May I have this dance, M’Lady?” She asked in her deepest voice, trying not to giggle at the nervous hesitancy in Lexa’s eyes. 

“Come... On.” She pleaded. “Don’t make me pull you out there by the tie...”

“Alright, alright.” Lexa acceded, slipping the sleek blue tie from Clarke’s fingers before she could get a proper grip on it. “But only because I-”

“Can’t resist me?” Clarke laughed, now gripping the edges of Lexa’s lapels and pulling her to her feet. “I know.”

“No...” Lexa answered. “I mean... Yes, that too.” She admitted. “But that’s not what I was going to say. Only because I-”

“Can’t bear to see a woman in a top hat reduced to pouting?” Clarke cut her off again.

“No...” Lexa answered again. “Though just the thought of it breaks my heart.” She snickered. “But what I was TRYING to say, was I’m only agreeing to dance with you because I-”

“I know... I know...” Clarke cut her off again, rolling her eyes dramatically, as though weary of hearing the words. But she knew by the smile she could not wipe off of her face, that the act was as transparent as the green in Lexa’s eyes. Of course, Lexa knew Clarke could never grow weary of hearing the words. Just as Clarke knew Lexa could never grow weary of speaking them. 

“Only because you love me.” Clarke finally finished for her, laughing as she hooked a finger into the lip of Lexa’s pants and dragged her forward. 

“Only because I love you.” Lexa repeated, grinning like an idiot as she followed after the girl she never really could say ‘no’ to. 

And, hand in hand, they made their way out to the dance floor... together.


	47. The Epilogue: Chapter 47: Rubies and Sapphires and Gold

PART FIVE: Tangled Together Hip to Hip  
OR  
Happy Endings Never Really End

[Five Sweet Years Later]

 

Epilogue  
OR  
The Chapter That is Not Really Needed but is There Anyway 

 

Chapter 47  
Rubies and Sapphires and Gold  
OR  
Just Two Lovesick Idiots (At Least Master Anya Thinks So)

LEXA

The door to the gym is propped wide open, but there is no breeze on this balmy May afternoon, and as I step over the threshold the smells of fresh paint and primer greet me with the force of a kick to the face. I suck in a breath, ignoring the stinging in my nostrils as I spot Master Anya straddling the top rung of a ladder. She looks as comfortable as a sparrow perched on a wire and I am grinning mischievously as I sneak my way in. Maybe it is foolish, cruel, even dangerous, to try to startle someone balanced ten feet off the ground. But I cannot resist the urge.

I creep up behind her and am about to snag her ankle when Anya suddenly lets her arm drop to her side, her paintbrush falling from the curve of the massive S in Self-Control to slap me hard across the curve of my cheek. And instead of ‘Boo,’ I hear myself cry out, “Blech!” as I wipe at the smear of cold, sticky forest-green paint streaking my face and dripping across my lips. 

Master Anya swivels on her perch. “Lexa!” She exclaims. But I can tell by her own mischievous grin that the surprise is feigned. Of course I couldn’t sneak up on Anya. Years of failed attempts should have made that clear to me by now. “Oops! I didn’t see you there!” She lies.

“Right... Sure you didn’t.” I laugh as Master Anya leaps gracefully from the ladder as if it is merely a stepping stool. “I suppose I deserved that.”

Master Anya’s grin pulls even wider. Her surprise at seeing me may have been feigned, but her delight is genuine. And I know that I, too, am grinning like a fool as I move to hug her.

But Master Anya steps back before I can embrace her. “I’m a bit of a mess.” She says, holding her hands out open before her as evidence. There are green and black smears and drips and streaks running across her palms and her arms, her clothes and her cheeks and her hair. But I don’t care. Not even a little bit. And I throw my arms around her before she can push me away.

“It’s good to see you, kiddo.” Master Anya whispers, holding me as fiercely as I hold her. “It’s about time you came to visit.” She scolds me.

“It’s only been a couple of months.” I protest, pulling out of the hug. 

“Yeah, well...” Master Anya argues, one sticky green hand resting on her hip. “A couple of months is a long time, Lexa. You don’t live across the country, you know. You’re only a couple of hours away. Why do you think I worked so hard to convince you and Clarke to go to U of O in the first place? Honestly, I thought, when I gave you that Subaru four years ago, you might actually use it to come see me every now and again. You know-”

“I’m sorry.” I cut her off with a chuckle. “We’ve been so busy with finishing up school. And you know we’ve been getting ready for graduation coming up. It’s only three weeks away and-”

“Three weeks away, Lexa?” Master Anya interrupts me, executing a sassy roll of her eyes as flawlessly as Raven. “You don’t say. Good of you to let me know. I swear... If it wasn’t for Clarke’s weekly phone calls, I wouldn’t know a thing about what’s going on with you. Honestly, I-”

“Okay!” I cut her off again. “I said, ‘I’m sorry.’ I should visit more. I should call more. Now... do you want to see it or not?” I ask, flashing her a grin. “I just picked it up.”

“Of course I want to see it!” She grins right back, her second sticky hand finding her hips. Her soft brown eyes are alight with impatience and anticipation. “I helped design it, didn’t I?”

I fish into my pocket for the velvety case and gingerly open it, holding it out for her to see, but not letting her messy fingers anywhere near it.

“Wow, Lexa.” Master Anya breathes. “It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. She’s going to love it. When are you going to-”

“Tonight.” I answer, still grinning despite the sudden rush of butterflies swarming in my tummy at the thought. My insides are a tangled mess. They have been for a long, long time. “Clarke wants to wait until after graduation. I know that. But I can’t wait any longer. I can’t. I’m going to surprise her tonight.”

Master Anya’s lips pull together like she’s fighting the urge to laugh. “Tonight.” She repeats, her eyes glinting in that way that always makes me wonder what it is she knows that I probably should, but absolutely don’t. “Before, during, or after dinner?”

“Before, I suppose.” I answer. I haven’t quite figured out the details yet. I’ve been thinking about this moment for days, weeks... Years, really. And I still haven’t gotten it all figured out yet. It still doesn’t feel quite real. “No... Maybe during. After? I don’t know. What do you think? Wait...” I pause, thinking. “How did you know we were going to dinner tonight?”

Master Anya is still biting back the laughter, and I am growing more and more confused, even suspicious by the second. I wrack my brains, replaying the last few phone calls I’ve had with her. I don’t ever remember telling her about our dinner plans tonight.

“Again... If Clarke didn’t call me every week, I wouldn’t know a thing.” Master Anya says, but by the slant of her smile I cannot help but wonder if the words are the entire truth.

“But...” I protest, still confused. “I just told Clarke about our reservation yesterday. She called you last night? Or this morning?” 

“Before.” Is all Master Anya says.

“She called you before?”

“You should do it BEFORE dinner.” Master Anya answers, now smiling at me in that way that says, ‘Of course I know something you don’t. I always do. Because I see everything. And you’re always clueless. And don’t you know by now, that you should just trust me?’

“Before?” I repeat, unsure.

“Before.” She nods, chuckling to herself. “Now, put that away before I can’t hold myself back any longer and I get paint all over it. And come check out the studio. Gus helped me put bars up along the mirrors and he’s working on installing shelves in the back so we don’t have to keep all the gear piled in a nasty heap in the corner anymore.”

I carefully shove the box back into my pocket and follow her around the corner and onto the mats that still feel more like home to me than anywhere else on this earth. There are indeed padded metal bars running along the side walls and sheets of lumber shelving propped against the back wall waiting to be erected. But my eyes only scan the outskirts of the mats briefly before settling on the scene in its center. A tall, willowy, dirty-blond black-belt is holding paddles for a line of six pudgy little four and five-year-olds. 

“Teacher... He cut me!” A little white-belt shrieks from the middle of the line, pointing at a tow-haired boy with wide, innocent blue eyes, even as a little redheaded girl bounces out of the line behind them and starts cartwheeling towards the hanging bag in the corner.

“Jacob, what did I tell you about going to the BACK of the-” Aden starts before noticing the escaping redhead. “Eva!” He calls. “Eva, get back in line. Eva... Eva!”

The yellow-belt in the front of the line takes advantage of Aden’s momentary distraction, turning around to continue her argument with the boy behind her, her hands perched on her hips imperiously. “Supergirl is WAY cooler than Captain America.” She says. “Captain America can’t even shoot lasers from his eyes.”

“Rachel, I said no more bashing Captain America.” Aden sighs. “Colton LIKES Captain America. Let’s just not talk about Supergirl anymore, OK? Jacob, go to the BACK of the line. You can’t cut Maddie like that. Eva, don’t touch the heavy bag. Eva... Eva!” Aden shoots me and Master Anya a panicked look. He’s clearly overwhelmed. He can’t even muster a smile for me, though I haven’t seen the boy in months.

“Are you going to help him?” I ask Master Anya, laughing because I already know what her answer will be.

“Of course not.” She chuckles right back. “He’s learning. He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” I agree, lost in my own memories. I wonder if someday little Eva will be kicking Aden in the face like he kicks me. “He’ll be fine.”

I lean against the mirror and let my back slide down its cool surface until I plunk onto the mats as I’ve done a thousand times before. “I’m glad you decided not to move, Master Anya.” I say as she drops down beside me.

“Yeah... Well...” Master Anya replies. “The other space is larger, a lot larger. It’s on a major road where I’m sure we’d get a lot more walk-ins. And it’s air conditioned.” She sighs dreamily, wiping at the thin film of sweat on her paint-streaked forehead. “Financially, I’m sure buying up that space would have been the smart move, rather than remodeling this place. But... I don’t know... I guess there’s just so many memories here, you know? I couldn’t bear to leave.”

“Yeah, I know.” I answer softly. And though I know I am watching Aden trying (and failing) to corral the next generation of fighters, I am seeing my own little twelve-year-old self struggling to keep Aden and Rosie and Parker and Dawsen in line. I am remembering the nights of sitting side-by-side with Anya just like we are sitting now, only instead of having paint streaked across my cheek, I had my sweat and Anya’s foot-grime. I am remembering the night Anya forced me to teach Clarke her first kicks and Clarke threw that fateful axe-kick and slipped and fell and all of my defenses went tumbling right down with her. And I am remembering the night four years later when Clarke ripped the straw from my mouth and stopped my breathing with her kiss. And I am remembering a million tiny moments in between; a million kicks thrown, a million painful breaths taken, a million drops of sweat given, a million lessons learned, a million smiles shared. It is on these mats that I found a family; that I found love; that I found myself. 

I first stepped onto these mats as a clueless, little eight-year-old, having no idea that they would become a place of refuge; never knowing that, thirteen years later, they would still be the place that I call home. 

“I know what you mean.” I smile at Master Anya. “I absolutely know.” 

***...***

 

“Oh, God.” Clarke’s voice calls out as the door bursts open. “I’m sorry I’m so late, Lexa! How much time do I-” She pauses, her panicked blue eyes alighting on me and her jaw dropping slightly. “Oh my god, you look good.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve got plenty of time.” I chuckle, kicking the door shut behind her as I pull her into me. She’s still in her dirty scrubs, having just come from her rounds interning at the local urgent care clinic. She smells like hospitals, like bleach and lemon lysol; and her lips taste like stale coffee and vending machine pop-tarts. And I kiss her until the keys fall from her fingers and clatter onto the floor because she is everything I want in this world. 

“You have all the time in the world.” I say as she pulls away.

“What time is the reservation?” She asks, confused.

“Seven.” I mumble in reply.

“But, it’s seven-thirty!” She cries.

“We’ll go somewhere else.” I shrug. It took me days to get a reservation at this restaurant, a fancy French place with a name I cannot pronounce. It took me weeks to save up the money for it. But I don’t care. Not even a little bit. The restaurant doesn’t matter. I’d be just as happy at Taco Bell. It’s the person sitting across from me, the girl on the other end of the table, that matters.

“I’m so sorry, Lexa.” Clarke says again, her lip trembling. She looks like she is on the verge of tears. “They wouldn’t let me go. It was crazy. Ten minutes till my shift ended and this old lady came in shaking, coughing so hard I thought she’d break apart. And then a little boy came who couldn’t stop puking and a teenager who cut his hand open skateboarding and had to get twenty-three stitches, and-”

“It’s OK.” I laugh, taking her trembling lip between my own once more. “We don’t have to go to that fancy restaurant.” I say, pulling out of the kiss. “We can go anywhere. Hell, we can even just stay here tonight. Order some pizza...”

“But you’re all dressed up.” Clarke protests, pointing at my little red dress. “You look like a fucking goddess.”

“YOU look like a goddess.” I correct her, running my fingers through her messy ponytail. 

“Yeah, right.” Clarke laughs. “Forget goddess, I’m a fucking mess. I ruined tonight. It was supposed to be perfect.”

Clarke has no idea what tonight was SUPPOSED to be. No idea. Still, she seems overly distraught.

“You didn’t ruin anything.” I promise. “Just by barreling in here, you’ve already made my night a million times better.”

“Hopeless romantic.” Clarke accuses, shaking her head at me. Her smile is small, sad. She still thinks she’s ruined everything. But it is a smile nonetheless. 

“Okay.” She says, leaning into my arms and resting her forehead against mine. “Give me half an hour. I’ll go wash off the stink of the clinic and find a dress as tight and tiny as yours and I swear I’ll make it up to you. Deal?”

“Deal.” I chuckle, pulling her hips in closer to mine, not wanting to let go.

“Half an hour.” She whispers again, pulling away. 

Half an hour... An eternity. “Take as long as you need.” I sigh, letting her fingers pull from mine when all I want to do is hold on.

Clarke tosses her backpack onto our tattered Salvation Army sofa and I expect her to head towards the bathroom. But instead she steps into our off-campus housing’s tiny excuse for a kitchen, reaching for an apple. But she pauses mid-bite and I feel my stomach flip and twist inside me like my intestines are suddenly part of a Bollywood-themed flash mob. 

“Did you leave me a message?” Clarke asks, cocking her head at the little red flag raised over Sebastian’s gills.

Clarke stole Sebastian when she moved out, insisting that the rusty old bass attend college with us, and we use him like others (normal people, that is) might use a chalkboard or notepad, stuffing his innards with little notes like ‘I’ll be home late tonight’ or ‘Sorry, I drank all the milk :(’ or ‘I’m bringing home pizza, you get the candles ;).’ We could just send each other text messages like everyone else. But Sebastian makes Clarke giggle. And Clarke’s giggles make me melt inside. 

Still, I didn’t think she would notice the flag so quickly and now my heart is racing, positively throwing itself against the bars of my rib cage like a prisoner trying to break free. And my hands are already shaking as I reach for the little velvety box on the counter behind me and fall to my knees on the cold, nasty kitchen floor.

And I watch as Clarke pries Sebastian’s ugly mouth open, gripping her apple between her teeth to free up her hands. She’s still in her dirty scrubs, her hair, wild and windswept, struggling to twist free of her ponytail. And I know this isn’t the perfect moment. It isn’t magical or fancy or orchestrated. It isn’t perfect. It’s altogether messy. And it’s altogether right.

I pry the box open as Clarke unfolds the note. And I have to tell myself to breathe as her blazing blue eyes flick from the paper to me. 

“Clarke,” I start, swallowing hard as the note flutters from her fingers and falls to the floor beside me like petals from a blossom and Clarke, wide-eyed, pulls the apple from her jaws and drops it on the counter’s edge.

“Will you-”

“No!” Clarke cuts me off, stealing the words from my lips; ripping the very air from my lungs. “No, no, no, no, no.” She repeats, spinning on the spot and practically sprinting from the kitchen, leaving me stunned and reeling in her wake.

‘No?’

‘No?’

‘No?’

I cannot make sense of the answer, even as I hear Clarke repeating it again and again in the other room, her voice hammering the word into my eardrums like the sharpest of nails. And my heart plummets into the abyss of my stomach even as Clarke’s apple wobbles over the counter’s edge. And the juicy ‘thwack’ of the fruit bursting open against the linoleum is louder than the sound of my heart breaking.

***...***

CLARKE

“No, no, no, no, no.” Clarke mumbled, cursing herself, cursing the very universe, as she frantically rummaged through her purse until she found what she was searching for. “No, no, no, no, no.”

She wrapped her fist around its edges and raced back into the kitchen, stopping in her tracks at the sight of Lexa now sitting cross-legged on the dirty kitchen floor in her impossibly sexy red dress. She had her back propped against the broken dishwasher, the little black box sitting abandoned beside her next to Clarke’s squashed apple. Her head was bowed and she was blinking down at her empty palms as if she were watching the whole world crumbling and falling through the cracks between her fingers like sand. Even as Clarke watched, a single, fat tear fell from Lexa’s shocked, confused eyes and streaked down her cheek and off of her chin to break against her open palm like the tiniest of waves.

It was one of the most heart-wrenching sights Clarke had ever witnessed. And it was all she could do to keep herself from laughing. 

Clarke dropped onto her own knees before Lexa. Then, thinking better of it, scooched to Lexa’s side, crossing her own legs and leaning back against the dishwasher too. Because that was where she belonged: by Lexa’s side. That’s where she always had belonged. That’s where she always would.

“Lexa.” She spoke softly, reaching out with one hand to gently pull Lexa’s chin towards her until those sea-green eyes finally followed. Lexa’s shimmering eyes only narrowed further in absolute bewilderment at the grin on Clarke’s face. And now the salty tears were leaking freely from the shallows in her eyes, cascading one after another down the shore of her cheeks. And Clarke was glad Lexa made no move to wipe them away. Clarke wanted to be the one who always wiped Lexa’s tears away... Now and forever. And it was time she told her so.

“I was going to ask you tonight.” Clarke laughed, opening her other fist to reveal the velvety black box clutched in her palm. “Tonight, after dinner. I had a whole speech planned. I wanted to surprise YOU. I mean... It’s MY turn to be the hopeless romantic for once.” 

Lexa’s eyes fell to the box in Clarke’s hand, blinking down at it in (if possible) even more confusion than before.

“Lexa,” Clarke began, setting the box aside, swiveling on the linoleum to face her properly, and taking Lexa’s trembling hands in her own shaky ones. “I want to spend every night of the rest of my life falling asleep beside you under the stars, fighting over the blankets with you all night long. I want to wake up every day tangled up in you and watch the morning sun play in your hair and in your eyes. I don’t ever want to share my pajamas... OUR pajamas... With anyone else.”

Clarke paused to breathe. She had rehearsed this speech a hundred times in her mind over the last few weeks, and here she was, sitting on the kitchen floor, completely butchering it. But Lexa’s wide, green eyes were locked on hers and there was no stopping now. 

“I want to buy a cheesy little house with you. And get a spoiled little puppy to play in our cheesy little yard. And I want to adopt little munchkins with you and teach them how to be strong and how to fight like you taught me. And I want to listen to them laughing and giggling as you teach them all of their grandpa’s godawful jokes. And I want them to learn how to do fucking perfect ninja rolls off of the swings. And I want them to learn how to be good and honest and kind like you... How to LOVE like you. And...” Clarke was fully abandoning the script now, moving into full-on rambling. But the words were still spilling out of her. And she couldn’t have stopped them if she tried. 

“I want to always be the one who gets to eat all of your yellow and green Dots.” She continued. “And who gets to take you to the movies every time some boring scientific documentary comes out, just to see you grin. I want to always be the one who gets to see you light up when you’re excited and gets to hold you when you’re sad. I want to be the only one who ever gets to wrap your hand in theirs or nibble on your ear or your lips or your tummy. Call me selfish... But I want to be the only person in the world who ever gets to kiss you or make your toes curl or make you giggle or whimper in the darkness; the only one who gets to discover new ways to make you cry out for mercy and for more at the same time.”

“I want to be the one who gets to know all the secret parts of you; the one who gets to see into the corners of your beautiful heart and your beautiful soul. I want to be the one who gets to spend her whole life studying you; learning how to make you laugh; how to make you smile; how to make you happy.”

“I want to be the one who gets YOU, Lexa; the only one who ever gets to have you.”

Clarke wiped one last tear from Lexa’s cheek, swallowing nervously as she reached again for the little black box beside her. 

“Lexa,” She began, prying open its lid. “Will you marry me?”

Lexa didn’t even bother to look at the ring in Clarke’s hands. She pushed herself back onto her knees and flung her arms around Clarke so fiercely she crashed back against the dishwasher. 

“Of course.” Lexa laughed in Clarke’s ear, a melody as beautiful as any Clarke had ever heard. “Of course, I will. Will YOU marry ME?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, yes.” Clarke laughed right back. “Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes.”

And Clarke held Lexa against her, feeling the giddy excitement of a child rushing through her blood like adrenaline. She wanted to lift Lexa to her feet and jump up and down with her in the middle of their tiny kitchen, giggling and squealing with abandon.

“We’re getting married!” Lexa exclaimed, pulling out of Clarke’s embrace enough to grin at her. The tears were still leaking from her eyes. And Clarke knew by the warmth on her own cheeks that they were leaking from her too.

“We’re getting married!” Clarke grinned right back. And she pulled the little golden ring out of its case and snagged Lexa’s hand in her own, biting down on her lip happily as she slipped it over Lexa’s knuckle to the base of her long, slender ring finger. It wasn’t the perfect engagement ring. There was no massive, fat diamond sparkling up at them. But the little rubies set into the ring glistened as crimson as Lexa’s dress. And Clarke knew it was better than perfect... It was right.

Lexa stared down at the band on her hand and the grin on her face (if possible) pulled even wider. “Did Master Anya help you design this ring?” She asked.

“Yeah.” Clarke replied, confused. “Did she tell you?”

Lexa didn’t answer. She just chuckled to herself softly, reaching for the little box lying forgotten beside her in the tiny puddle of apple juice. She opened it and pulled out her own ring, slipping it gingerly onto Clarke’s finger. There was no fat diamond on this ring either. It was a simple golden band just like Clarke’s, with tiny gems ingrained in it in the exact same fashion. Only these gems weren’t rubies. They were sapphires as blazing blue as the open ocean or the summer sky or the eyes that stared back at Clarke whenever she caught her reflection in the mirror. It was beautiful. It wasn’t perfect. It was better than perfect... It was right.

“I couldn’t afford diamonds.” Lexa explained. “So Master Anya convinced me I should go with your birthstone instead. Looks like she gave you the same advice.”

“Yep.” Clarke laughed, shaking her head at the wonder of it all.

“So, is that where you were all last Sunday, then... When you were supposedly helping Raven with a project? You drove up to see Master Anya?” Lexa asked, her grin slanting sideways playfully as she cocked an eyebrow.

“I had to pick up the ring.” Clarke confessed. “You knew I wasn’t with Raven? You knew I was lying?”

“Of course I knew.” Lexa answered. “I always know when you’re lying. Your lips wiggle and your nostrils flare and your left eyebrow twitches and-”

“My left eyebrow twitches?” Clarke asked, incredulous. “You knew I was lying because my left eyebrow was twitching?”

“Yeah, well...” Lexa giggled. “That and Octavia let slip that Raven had to go back up to Portland that weekend for Rosa’s... No, Rosita’s... Rolanda’s?” She paused, thinking. “Well, one of her cousin’s quincineras.”

“You knew I had lied... And you didn’t say anything?” Clarke asked.

Lexa just shrugged. “I knew if it was important, you would tell me eventually.”

Clarke considered the gorgeous girl sitting before her; the girl who trusted her so completely she would never doubt Clarke’s motives; never, for even an instant, doubt her loyalty. And now that girl had Clarke’s ring glinting on her finger. How the fuck had Clarke ever gotten so lucky? 

“Did Master Anya know you were planning on asking me tonight?” Lexa asked, pulling Clarke from her thoughts.

“Yeah. I called her just this morning.” Clarke answered. “Told her I decided I would ask you right after dinner.”

“Well, that explains it.” Lexa laughed, now shaking her own head. “Master Anya orchestrated all of this. I saw her today. She told me I should ask you BEFORE dinner.”

“Uggghhh.” Clarke groaned. “That traitor! I told her I wanted to surprise YOU first. But she always did like you best.” Clarke laughed, not actually upset. She couldn’t blame Master Anya for favoring Lexa. Clarke felt the same way. “I bet she’s laughing at the two of us right now.”

“Master Anya’s been laughing at the two of us since we were twelve.” Lexa smiled. “She thinks we’re just a couple of lovesick idiots.”

“Well, when has Master Anya ever been wrong?” Clarke replied, pushing herself forward onto her knees and leaning into Lexa. “I am definitely a lovesick idiot.” She whispered in Lexa’s ear, relishing the shiver of anticipation that ran though Lexa at her words. And she opened her lips to snag Lexa’s earlobe between them, but Lexa’s next words made her pull back in surprise.

“Hey... You think Master Anya would let us hold the ceremony in the dojang?” Lexa asked.

“You want to get married in a Tae Kwon Do school?” Clarke replied, her face scrunching at the ridiculous idea. “We can’t get married in a Tae Kwon Do school.”

“Why not?” Lexa laughed, her eyebrows raised innocently. 

“Because it’s...” Clarke stammered. “It’s small and it’s stinky and it’s... It’s... A Tae Kwon Do school!”

“It’s also the first place I got to hold your hand.” Lexa whispered, pulling Clarke’s hand into her lap and tracing her fingertips ever so lightly along Clarke’s palm, making Clarke’s own fingertips tingle. Then she leaned in close enough for Clarke to feel the warmth of her breath caress her lips as soft as the breeze from a butterfly’s wings as Lexa spoke again. 

“And the first place I got to taste your tongue.” Lexa whispered, leaning in even closer until there was no space left between them. 

The kiss was as deep and tender and passionate and tentative and wildly maddening as their first. It was the kind of kiss that was less lips meeting than hearts and minds mingling. It was the kind of kiss that said, ‘Though I fear you may be the end of me... I am yours. I am yours. I am yours,’ in a way that mere words never could. And it was the kind of kiss that said, ‘You are mine. You are mine. You are mine. And I will be the end of you,’ in a way that mere words never could. And Clarke wanted to sink into Lexa like the deepest, darkest of seas; to lose herself in her like the wildest of forests, the most alluring of wildernesses. She wanted to press into her right there on the kitchen floor, to tangle herself so completely with Lexa that she could never say where she ended or where Lexa began. 

But, all too soon, Lexa pulled back out of the kiss, leaving Clarke reeling, dizzy. It was her favorite kind of kiss; the kind of kiss that only left her longing for more. 

Lexa rested her forehead against Clarke’s, the tips of their noses meeting ever so gently. “It’s the first place I got to tell you ‘I love you.’” She whispered. “And since I don’t think it would be practical, or even possible to hold the wedding on your rooftop... There’s probably a city ordinance banning rooftop weddings for safety-”

“My rooftop?” Clarke interrupted. “You mean... The first place I got to feel your-”

“The first place...” Lexa chuckled, her grin as mischievous as Clarke’s. “I realized I was madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with you.”

“Oh, right.” Clarke snickered. “I was thinking of ANOTHER first...”

“We can’t commemorate THAT first.” Lexa laughed. “Can you imagine...” She paused to adopt a deep voice. “‘So Lexa, why are you guys getting married on a rooftop?’ ‘Oh, well...”’ She continued, switching back to her normal voice. “‘Ms. Indra, Mr. Kane, Ms. Griffin... Mr. MINISTER, holy-church-official-guy with a direct communication line to God... it’s the first place Clarke and I ever-’” She paused, shaking her head. “Nope. It won’t work. I can say ‘held hands.’ I can say ‘kissed.’ But I’m not sharing any more than that. Besides, Master Anya’s remodeling the gym.” Lexa continued, wiggling her eyebrows ridiculously, still trying to convince Clarke that her idea was, in fact, an idea; an actual, legitimate idea. “She’s painting and putting in bars along the mirrors and shelves and-”

“Shelves? How fancy.” Clarke snickered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “If I had known there were SHELVES...” 

“Just picture it...” Lexa said undeterred, leaning back and waving her palms enthusiastically through the air as if revealing some gorgeous work of art. “We’ll take all the nasty gear off the shelves and spray them down with air freshener and put all kinds of flowers there instead. And we’ll wrap fairy lights around the bars and hang pretty streamers on the mirrors, red and gold or blue and silver or... Well, I’ll let YOU pick the colors... And sprinkle glitter everywhere. And-”

“Master Anya wouldn’t allow glitter anywhere near her mats.” Clarke laughed. This whole idea was absurd, ludicrous, laughable. And yet... 

“We’d only be able to invite like ten people.” Clarke commented, giving the idea ten seconds of actual serious thought. She couldn’t believe she was even considering it. But she couldn’t deny the idea had a certain appeal to it. She had to admit that Anya’s gym had been the place where she had found friendship and love, courage and strength. It was like a second home to her. And she knew it had been even more of a refuge to Lexa, a place where the rest of their problems faded away and their messy lives became more simple. Still, the gym was tiny. 

“Ten people.” She said again. “Where would we put everyone?”

“Naw...” Lexa answered, her grin lopsided, half serious, half playful. “We’d be able to fit AT LEAST twelve.” She laughed. Then, more seriously, “We could invite only the people who really matter. Everyone else could meet us for the reception afterwards in whatever fancy, normal, societally-approved venue you desire. What do you think?” She finished, grinning at Clarke with her green eyes wide and glinting with absolute excitement. 

“I think you’re fucking crazy.” Clarke chuckled. “And fucking adorable. And...” She paused, sighing in defeat.

And Lexa’s smile was so massive, her eyes so bright, Clarke couldn’t stop herself from grinning right back. She could never resist that utterly dorky, utterly adorable look on Lexa’s face. It was a look of pure happiness, uncontained joy. And Clarke would do anything to see it, ANYTHING to make it last... Even if it meant getting married in a goddamn Tae Kwon Do school. 

“And...” Clarke continued. “I think if you give Master Anya that same ridiculous grin, maybe you WILL get your glitter, after all. She can’t say no to you any more than I can.”

Lexa’s eyes were practically burning Clarke, they were shining with such unadulterated excitement. She pulled her grin into a sheepish smile. “It’s hard to refuse a lovesick idiot.”

“Tell me about it.” Clarke sighed, shaking her head, still grinning despite herself. “Why do you think I’m marrying you?”

“Because you’re a lovesick idiot too.” Lexa laughed, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Clarke’s forehead. 

But Clarke reached out, wrapped her palms around Lexa’s cheeks, and pulled her into a proper kiss. It was a kiss that was slow and tender and deep, so deep. It was Clarke’s favorite kind of kiss; the kind of kiss that was less lips meeting than souls touching. It was the kind of kiss that spoke, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ in a way that mere words never could. And when Lexa pulled out of it, the laughter was gone.

Lexa opened her eyes slowly, her lashes parting gently to reveal the green seas Clarke could spend an eternity drowning in. “We’re getting married.” She breathed. 

“We’re getting married.” Clarke answered, pressing back into her. 

And this kiss was less tender and slow. Indeed, it was downright urgent. It was hungry and wild and desperate. And Lexa pressed right back into Clarke, her tongue moving against Clarke’s hungrily, wildly, desperately. And in an instant Lexa’s back was against the linoleum and her fingers were in Clarke’s hair and Clarke’s fingers were sliding their way up the hem of Lexa’s little red dress. And this kiss was less lips meeting than tongues and skin and hips colliding. It was the kind of kiss that spoke, “I want you, I want you, I want you,” in a way that mere words never could. And it was Clarke’s favorite kind of kiss; the kind of kiss she never wanted to pull out of. 

But beside Lexa’s cheek there was a mushy apple to consider. And stale fruit loops against the baseboard. And crusty, mysterious bits of something else in the corner. And Lexa’s dress deserved better.

Clarke pushed herself to her hands and knees, hovering over Lexa. And Lexa, hungry for more, tried to follow, pushing herself up to meet Clarke’s lips with her own again, biting down and dragging Clarke forward by her captured bottom lip, even as she wrapped her calves around the back of Clarke’s thighs to force her hips back down against her. Lexa’s legs were strong; nearly too strong for Clarke to resist. But the knowledge that Lexa craved Clarke as badly as Clarke craved her... That nearly broke Clarke. Never was Lexa so sexy, so irresistible, as when she let her hunger reign; when she threw self-control aside and let her body make the calls; when she became forceful, even demanding. And it took all of Clarke’s strength to separate herself from Lexa’s hold.

“Where are you going?” Lexa breathed, frowning up at Clarke as she somehow found her way to her feet. 

“Come on.” Clarke whispered. She reached down and found Lexa’s hands, pulling at her arms. But Lexa pulled right back.

“Come back.” Lexa said, her words something between a demand and a plea.

“Come on.” Clarke repeated, chuckling at Lexa’s pout.

Lexa allowed Clarke to pull her up a few inches then abruptly collapsed back to the floor, flopping dramatically against the linoleum. “I can’t... I can’t get up.” She croaked. “The peristalsis... It’s crippling. I think... I think I need a doctor, Doctor Griffin.”

“Oh, come on!” Clarke laughed, now fully tugging at Lexa’s forearms. “You better get up and come with me before I change my mind.”

It was a complete bluff. Clarke knew she would never change her mind. But the threat was more effective than she could have hoped. At her words Lexa sprang to her feet with an agility and grace that no normal person in a restrictive, tight little dress should ever be able to manage. But Lexa’s athleticism always did defy normal human boundaries.

“Where are we going?” Lexa asked with a mischievous smile, a cocked brow, the excited glint playing once more in the light of her eyes.

“Help me out of these nasty scrubs?” Clarke pleaded, pulling Lexa towards her as she slowly backed her way down the hall towards the bedroom.

“Oh, you know undressing you is, by far, my greatest talent.” Lexa answered, the grin on her face both impossibly dorky and impossibly sexy. “But it took me ten minutes to squeeze into this dress.”

“Are you saying it’s not coming off?” Clarke pouted, remembering how stubbornly she had refused Lexa on her mother’s wedding day so many years ago even though every cell in her body had begged her to give in. 

“Oh, no... Of course it’s coming off.” Lexa laughed. “I just thought you should know what I went through to get it on, is all. Just so you appreciate my efforts.”

“Oh. I absolutely appreciate your efforts, Lexa.” Clarke replied, wiggling her eyebrows in the way she knew Lexa could never resist. Then again, there wasn’t much about Clarke that Lexa ever COULD resist. 

“All that hard work squeezing into it...” Clarke teased. “I’ll make sure I take my sweet time peeling it off of you.”

At Clarke’s promise, Lexa pulled her bottom lip between her teeth then ran her tongue over it hungrily, a subconscious habit of hers that Clarke found just as irresistible as Lexa found her. And she was already dying with the anticipation. Peri-fucking-stalsis.

“What about dinner?” Lexa asked, cocking a brow. 

“Dinner can wait.” Clarke answered, finally reaching the bedroom door and pushing it open with a gentle back-kick. “You told me earlier... We have all the time in the world, remember?” Clarke spoke, feeling the absolute truth of the words, the sense of contentment in her swelling so immensely that it almost obliterated her peristalsis. Almost. 

Clarke knew she could never fully satisfy her hunger for Lexa. A million moments beside her would never be enough. She needed Lexa like she needed oxygen, the constant demand never dwindling, returning as fiercely as ever after every breath taken. But now Lexa would always be hers as much as Clarke would always be Lexa’s. And Clarke would have every day to tell Lexa she loved her; every day to do everything in her power to prove it true.

“We have all the time in the world.” She repeated, pulling Lexa closer as she backed across the threshold of the bedroom door.

“All the time in the world.” Lexa agreed, still grinning like a lovesick idiot as she let her fiance drag her through the door and into the darkness beyond.


End file.
